


In Her Eyes

by sea_spirit



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-05
Updated: 2018-08-07
Packaged: 2019-06-05 19:31:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 24,879
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15177734
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sea_spirit/pseuds/sea_spirit
Summary: Jaime, having arrived at Winterfell, reflects on the long journey he and Brienne have taken in and out of each other's lives. And when the opportunity presents itself, he decides to tell her the truth about how he feels.





	1. A Reflection

**Author's Note:**

> This fic started out as a devoted JB shipper's response to the argument that Jaime has no feelings beyond friendship for Brienne. The first chapter, especially, is my take on those feelings. But then it grew into something more. It's my first attempt at writing fanfic, so I hope you enjoy it!
> 
> It's show canon, post-season 7, with the exception of Jaime's admiration of Brienne's eyes. It's always made me sad that the show left that out.
> 
> I've gotten countless hours of enjoyment and been so inspired by the wonderful works of so many other writers here. Thank you all!

Her eyes followed him everywhere these days. A flash of sapphire across the training yard, in the Great Hall, even in his dreams. Always watching.

At first, her gaze had been filled with astonishment, as if she had not believed he would come. To be fair, none of them—himself included—had expected him to arrive alone. Then, when he’d told them of Cersei’s betrayal, his eyes had sought hers before any of the others, and he watched her initial storm of anger ebb into a strange mix of sadness and pity, respect and relief.

She felt sorry for him, he knew, and Jaime did not like it. He didn’t deserve her compassion. But she was also proud of him, if he did not mistake her, and that made him feel like he may have finally done the right thing.

It was hard to pinpoint when her opinion had become so important to him, but he couldn't deny that it was. Nor could he deny that his presence at Winterfell was due at least in part to _her_ presence. He was not here only to fulfill his promise to fight on the side of the living, but to fight on _her_ side. At her side.

Though that was far from the foregone conclusion it might once have been, given that she was barely speaking to him. Not that they were often in each other’s company. When she was not looming at Sansa Stark’s side like a silent shadow, much of her time was spent in the yard, sparring with Podrick or anyone else brave enough to challenge her. That much about her, at least, had not changed.

But whenever Jaime was near her, he felt her holding herself away. As if being too close to him in front of the others was somehow dangerous. And despite his best efforts, he had been unable to get her alone. 

All she would give him were those eyes. Occasionally protective, almost always guarded, and sometimes, when she thought no one could see, they would go slightly soft—filled with something Jaime dared not define.

Those eyes had been in and out of his life for years now. But never far from his mind. 

Somehow, even when he had been most fiercely loyal to Cersei, when his love for her eclipsed everything and everyone else—including his own reason—she had been there. 

Brienne.

Ever since Harrenhal, when she'd looked at him with horror and sympathy in those shining blue eyes and made him feel seen for the first time since he’d put his sword through Aerys Targaryen’s back. 

It had been longer than that, really. Jaime could not actually recall the last person in his life who had seen him in that way. His mother, perhaps? Because even in his golden youth, when life still held the promise of honor and greatness, when they’d wrapped the white cloak around his shoulders and he felt full of pride and possibility, they didn’t really see him. Even, and perhaps most especially, those he loved most. They all saw what they could use: a Lannister, an eager knight, a boy who would always be a fool for love. A pawn in their game of thrones. 

But not Brienne. She just saw Jaime.

He had exposed himself to her completely in that tub; the smirking facade he showed the world stripped away by the steam, by what they had endured. He had felt open and raw—and strangely free. He'd given her a glimpse of his soul that day, something he'd buried so deep for so long he hadn't been certain it was still there. He had done so because it mattered to him what she thought, and Jaime Lannister didn’t care what anyone thought. 

But she was not just anyone, even then.

In truth, she had stirred something in him, and he had not been ready for it. For her. For all that she called forth in him, for what her presence demanded. He’d been too full of Cersei, too certain that his love for her was all that mattered. There was no room for anyone else. There had barely been room for him.

And in his selfish denial, he had left her there, to Locke and his horrors. She hadn’t even reproached him when he abandoned her; she just bid him farewell with good faith he had not earned. 

He had  _ tried _ to leave her, and yet found that he could not.  

Jaime had known then that he wasn’t worthy of her—of her friendship, of her regard, of her trust. But he wanted it, nonetheless. 

And he had tried to earn it, in the only way he could: by sending her to find Sansa. Brienne valued oaths and honor above all else, so he’d done what he could to arm her for that mad quest. To help her keep her vow, and fulfill his own, seemed like the best gift he could give her. The fact that he’d done so in direct opposition to Cersei's wishes still amazed him. 

At the time, he had been utterly devoted to her, and consumed by relief at being back by her side. As conflicted as he was over Joffrey's death and Tyrion's impending trial, Jaime was still desperate to protect her, to make her happy. 

However, he hadn’t been so blinded by her that he could forget the vow he swore, or ignore the strange tightness in his chest when Brienne promised to complete her quest for  _ him _ as well as Catelyn Stark, when she gave Oathkeeper its name, and when he watched her ride away. 

Jaime could still remember how her astonishing eyes went wide and full of wonder when he presented her with his sword and the armor he’d had made for her. And how full of sadness they were when he bid her goodbye.

She was sad to leave him, he knew, and he had been somewhat surprised to find himself equally sorrowful to see her go. He'd known that he mattered to her, then. But the truly incredible thing was that _she_ had come to matter to _him_. He felt it like a dagger in his gut when she turned her eyes on him that final time, overcome with the fear that he would not see her again. It was almost more than he could bear.

It should have been impossible, but Jaime had felt connected to her in a way he could not deny, try as he might. That feeling of connection, a resonance that defied reason and explanation, had never left him. 

When he’d sailed past Tarth, he’d felt it rise inside of him again. The island was like a living memory, a reminder, a part of her. It was like a return of something vital that had been lost, even if only for a moment. And how could he think of anything but her eyes when he beheld those sapphire waters? 

He’d felt her absence keenly, then, but it wasn't until she walked into his tent at Riverrun that Jaime had realized how much he’d missed her—and how glad he was that their paths had crossed again. She was changed, more sure of herself, and yet somehow still Brienne. Formal, rigid, and honorable as ever. 

He’d meant it when he said he was proud of her.

Inevitably, they’d argued. How could they not when they were always on opposite sides, each of them loyal to someone else? He’d hated arguing with her, which was strange, given how much he’d enjoyed antagonizing her when they'd first been together in the Riverlands. Gods, he’d been a merciless ass. It was a wonder she’d ever forgiven him, ever turned those eyes on him in anything but hurt and loathing. 

It had pained him to see her unbuckle Oathkeeper from her hip, and he would not take it back. How could he? It was the only piece of himself he could give her. 

The idea of having to fight her nearly wrecked him, as did the quiver in her chin as she walked away. That glimpse of the warrior giving way for the smallest of moments made him want to rush after her and promise they would never cross swords again. But, of course, he could not. 

Seeing her row safely away had brought him relief and dejection in equal parts, and he’d felt a fleeting longing for things to be different as he raised his hand in yet another farewell.

The next time he saw her was a storm of tension and uncertainty. Her presence in the Dragonpit had startled and unsettled him. Jaime had tried to steel himself against it, against her wide and guileless gaze as it sought his. There was no room for the conflict she stirred inside of him in that charged, precarious place. And the thought that Cersei would somehow see this...thing that passed between them sent dread shooting through him.

She had changed again, even since Riverrun. She no longer tried to make herself small, to shrink from the world. Instead, she stood tall and strong and fierce, the northern furs about her shoulders making her all the more striking. 

Brienne was a complication he did not need, and yet she wouldn’t be ignored. She wouldn’t let him walk away. He had been shocked by her words—that  _ Brienne _ would dismiss loyalty was almost as unimaginable as the wight was terrifying—and exasperated with her. How could she be so naive? How could she believe it would be that easy, after all this time? 

How could she have such faith in him, still, when he had so little in himself? 

His frustration had given way to shame, and then to renewed hope, and finally to heartbreak and despair. When he left King’s Landing, determined to reach Winterfell and fulfill his pledge, he found himself wondering how long he had been faithful to Cersei out of habit, out of a loyalty he should have outgrown long ago. Or had he just believed that whatever scraps she would give him were the only kind of love he deserved?

In Cersei’s eyes, he was a traitor. In the eyes of the North, he was a murderer, a sisterfucker, even a suspected spy. Here, he was and would always be the Kingslayer, even after he had bent the knee to the girl whose father he’d slain. 

Yet, by some extraordinary miracle,  _ her  _ eyes still saw Jaime. In spite of all he had done, all his mistakes, stupidity, cruelty, and blindness, Brienne did not waver. She knew everything: his dead children, the one yet unborn, Bran Stark. Still she had vouched for him, defended him, and almost certainly helped save his life. 

To her, he remained a knight, an oathkeeper, a man of honor. 

He still was not worthy of her, but he wanted to be. He wanted to believe there was still time to be the man he might have been, the man he was in her eyes. He wanted to earn the respect she had already given him. 

He wanted  _ her_.

He had known it since he rode through the gates of Winterfell, frozen and aching and knowing he was about to face those who hated him most, who wanted him dead, who would blame him for his sister’s deeds—and he didn’t care. He had no thought for anyone but her. Brienne was there, and he was there, and they were finally going to be on the same side. 

When Jaime caught her eyes across the yard—wide and searching and so very, very blue—it felt like turning his face toward the sun after living for years in the shadows. He had been so overwhelmed by it that he actually  _ smiled _ at her, like the idiot he was. And his heart had given a fierce lurch in his chest when she pressed her lips together in a vain attempt to hide their upward curl. 

At first, he had wondered if this feeling was a desperate scramble of his heart toward something new. Without Cersei, he was anchorless, rudderless, adrift. His life was suddenly his own, more than it had ever been. He did not want to latch on to another woman, even one as honorable as Brienne, in an attempt to escape that responsibility. He wanted to be his own man and make his own decisions. If he gave himself to her, it would have to be different. He would have to be sure that his longing was as pure as she deserved. 

But as the long nights passed with little else to occupy his thoughts, Jaime realized that this feeling, this  _ want_, wasn’t new at all. It had been there for years, like a seed buried inside of him that had somehow managed to grow and bloom despite years of neglect. Despite Cersei’s poison. And if that were true, if  _ Cersei _ had not been powerful enough to cast it out, then the feeling was far stronger than he’d given it credit for. He’d just been too blind—and too afraid—to see it. 

Looking back now, it was clear that he had felt something beyond mere duty and honor when he’d lost his hand to save her. When he’d climbed into her tub, not just to unnerve her, but to be near her. When he’d leapt into that bear pit and thrown his weak and wounded body in front of her, ragged and bleeding in that abominable dress. When he’d given her his sword—and when he’d bade her keep it.  

Saving her had never been about doing the honorable thing. It was, in fact, Jaime being himself: throwing caution and reason to the wind to protect someone he cared about.

Because somewhere between Robb Stark’s camp and Harrenhal, between King’s Landing and Riverrun, his amusement at tormenting her had grown into a grudging respect and trust, into admiration and a strange sort of friendship, and then into a fondness that tugged at his heart. 

She had been his friend, his only friend, for years. It should have been enough. Being on her side at last should have been enough. But it was not.

He had never known anyone as good as Brienne. With her awkwardness and stubbornness, with her unwavering honor, with her astonishing eyes, she was the most beautiful thing Jaime had ever seen. And now, every time she turned those eyes on him, he felt a warmth rising in his chest and an urge to close the space between them and take hold of her. 

One of these days, if she continued to evade his attempts to get her alone, he would do just that—regardless of who happened to be watching. Because he was not going to wait any longer. He could not risk marching off to face the fucking army of the dead without telling her. 

He was not going to die in this godsforsaken icy wasteland without Brienne of Tarth knowing that he loved her. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed! If you did, and would like to read more, please do let me know.


	2. A Declaration

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The response to this has absolutely astonished me. I am pleased beyond words that people are enjoying it. 
> 
> To which point: thank you to everyone for your magnificently kind words and kudos! They sincerely kept me going as I tried to beat this into something worth sharing. 
> 
> This has a bit of a different feel from the first chapter: less introspection, more dialogue. And, of course, it's all new territory! 
> 
> I hope it doesn’t disappoint.

Jaime had awoken in terror, covered in a cold sweat with his heart pounding and his hand fisted in the linens of his bed.

Now, blinking furiously, he tried to banish the image in his mind: Brienne, broken and bleeding in the snow, her bright blue eyes dimming as she slipped away from him.

He heaved himself out of bed and began to pace, willing his body to relax. But it was no use. Jaime felt caged and suffocated by the walls of his chamber, by the way the dream and its darkness seemed to linger. Unable to remain there, with it all pressing so unbearably close, he pulled on his boots and donned his cloak.

It was late, and the castle was quiet as he wandered out into the winter night. A man who appeared to be on guard duty gave Jaime a long, hard glare as he walked into the yard. It irritated him, the way they all looked at him like that, but he was learning to ignore it. The disdain of a Northerner was the least of his problems.

Snow was falling—it was always falling here, it seemed—and the soft, white silence could almost have been peaceful if not for the agony that had seized in his chest. The cold air felt like shards of glass in his lungs, but he gulped it down in forced, measured breaths, raking his hand through his beard.

It was just a dream, he knew. It had not been real. But it had felt real. It _could_ be real.

He was absolutely certain that Brienne would not be kept out of the coming battle—no force in the world was strong enough to bar her from it. She was a magnificent fighter, but even her remarkable skills would not guarantee protection against the foe they had to face. If anything, her courage and quest for honor would work _against_ her safety.

Jaime shook his head, his panic gradually replaced by resolve. He could not lose her. He would not.

Looking up to the sky, he made a silent vow to whatever gods happened to be listening, gods he didn’t even believe were there. No matter the cost, he would do what was necessary to prevent that horrific scene from unfolding. His life, they could have. But not hers.

If he'd expected an answer, none came. There was only the snow and the wind swirling around him, driving the frigid air beneath his cloak. Jaime shuddered and reflexively tucked his handless arm more tightly against his body. He’d left the golden hand in his room—he felt lighter without it, in more ways than one. But exposure to this ghastly cold made his stump ache.

Chilled and weary but still too restless to return to his room, Jaime made his way into the deserted Great Hall, brushing the snow from his hair. He was in search of a fire and perhaps a drink—peace of mind may have been elusive, but at least he could be warm—but he found _her_ instead.

Miraculously alone, she sat hunched forward on a long bench before the hearth, eyes fixed on the fire. Even from a distance, he could tell by the way her fur-lined cloak rested on her broad shoulders that she wasn’t wearing her armor. Oathkeeper, though, rested within easy reach on the bench beside her, its golden pommel glittering in the flickering light. It still gave him a strange sense of satisfaction that she would go nowhere without it.

He walked silently toward her, feeling an unexpected and overpowering rush of relief. Jaime hadn’t realized how badly he’d needed to _see_ her—still here, still alive, still Brienne. He still had time.

He wanted to storm across the room and fall to his knees before her, but Jaime knew he could not. That was not Brienne. She would need a subtler, gentler approach—neither of which were his particular strong suit. But he would try. For her.   

Slowly, he drew closer, allowing his footsteps to echo softly on the stone floor so as not to startle her. Typically, her senses were so sharp he wouldn't have given it a second thought, but he could tell that she was somewhere else. The look she bore was thoughtful, but troubled—from her creased brow to the grim set of her lips to the tight clasp of her hands in her lap.

He knew she had finally noticed him when her whole body straightened, shoulders squaring and features smoothing. But she would not look at him.

Jaime sighed, sitting down heavily on the bench beside her, his shoulder nearly brushing hers.

“Brienne.”

Her gaze flickered to his face before settling back on the flames. “Ser Jaime.”

“You’re avoiding me, my lady.”

“I am _not_.”

Her voice, so matter-of-fact, made him smile.

“You are.”

He waited for another reply, for her to argue or explain, but she did not.

“I never thanked you for speaking on my behalf,” he continued, still watching her. He hadn’t noticed before how her slicked-back hair curled just slightly around her ear, and Jaime wondered what it would be like to run his hand through it, to see the blond strands tousled about her face. “You probably saved my life, you know. Although I'm beginning to wonder why you bothered, if you never intended to speak to me again.”

He felt her bristle at that, despite the lightness in his tone, saw the flash of her eyes and the downward turn of her mouth.

“I speak to you,” she said, sounding exasperated. “We're speaking.”

“Well, yes, we are now. If you can call it that.”

“I suppose I haven't much to say.”

He felt a flash of frustration. How could there be nothing to say, after what she had done for him? After all that had happened? With all they had to face? And she had certainly never been shy about telling him what she thought.

It simply couldn’t be true; in fact, Jaime was sure it _wasn’t_ true. In which case, Brienne was not being completely honest with him, and he found himself needing to know why.

“Is that so?” He kept his tone light, trying to draw her out.  

Her mouth opened, then closed again for a long moment. When she finally spoke, her voice was sad. “I know it can’t be easy for you to be here.”  

That was definitely _not_ what he’d expected her to say. Gods, did she think he was pining for Cersei?

“No, now that you mention it,” he replied, once again forcing a lightness he didn't feel. “It hasn't been particularly enjoyable, especially when the only person whose company I want refuses to give it to me. Really, Brienne. I'm beginning to think you don't like me very much.”

His words, meant to be teasing and playful, had sounded despondent instead, and her eyes snapped up, wide with surprise.

Jaime plowed ahead. If she would not say it, he would do it for her.

“I know you think me a fool. For my loyalty. For what I've done. For my devotion to—”

“I don’t,” she interrupted. “You’re here now, Ser Jaime. That is all that matters.”  

He shook his head and turned his gaze to the fire. Her words said one thing, but her actions—and her eyes—said another.  

“It’s _not_ all that matters,” he exhaled. “I was loyal to the wrong side for years, Brienne. To the wrong person. Do you think I don’t know I shouldn’t have loved her? But I didn’t know how not to. There was never anything else for me.”

He frowned, squeezing his eyes shut. This was coming out all _wrong_. His words had been true, but they were not what he wanted to say. He wasn't here to speak of Cersei. Jaime did still grieve for her, for what she had done. For what _he_ had done. Perhaps he always would. In spite of everything, he admittedly did not want to see her come to harm. But he didn't love her.

And he desperately hoped there _would_ be something else for him.

Brienne shifted and Jaime turned back to her, marveling at the sudden softness in her eyes.

“A very obnoxious man once told me we don’t get to choose who we love,” she said, her tone managing to both tease and console. “He was right.”

He studied her, a lump rising in his throat.

“Who would you choose, Brienne?” The raggedness in his voice startled him, but she seemed not to notice.

She just huffed, averting her gaze and fixing it determinedly on the floor. “I’ve just said you were right, haven’t I? It is not a choice. And if it were, I would not choose it. That path has never been open to me, and wishing it were has only ever brought me pain.”

Her defeated tone set a sharp ache gnawing inside of him. Was she still thinking of Renly, after all these years? That fool had deserved her regard even less than Jaime did. She had been too good for him—but then, she was too good for everyone.

“Surely you know that Renly cared for you, in his own way.”

“Renly?” The surprise in her voice was unmistakable. After a moment, she huffed again, a wistful expression overtaking her face. “I didn't love Renly, not in the way you mean. I thought I did, once, but I was young. He was kind to me, and men have never been kind to me. And I was loyal to him, and grateful. But I didn’t know him, and he did not know me.”

" _I_ know you.”

She raised her eyes to his once more, huge and molten blue in the light of the fire, and Jaime's heart clenched. Shimmering beneath her guarded exterior was an ocean of feeling. He could see it there, in those astonishing eyes.

Slowly, so slowly, never taking his eyes from hers, he lifted his hand and moved it toward where hers rested on her thigh. She flinched, almost imperceptibly, when he brushed the backs of her long, slender fingers with his own, but she didn't pull away. When he closed his hand over hers, he felt something tight inside him begin to uncoil.

“And you know me.”

“Ser Jaime…”

“Perhaps I should tell you who I would choose.”

She tried to tug her hand away, but he gripped her more tightly. There was confusion in her eyes now, and a wariness that made Jaime want to pull her into his arms.

“Please, Ser Jaime. Knowing me is not the same as...caring for me.”

“I do not speak of care, Brienne.”

She swallowed. “No. Well, as I said—”

He squeezed her hand, and she stopped, eyes flicking across his face. And Jaime knew there would not be a better moment.

“I love you.”

His words—a declaration, a confession, a plea—hung in the air between them. Time seemed to slow as he watched her pale eyebrows rise high, her eyes widen in shock. She blinked at him, frozen, and Jaime waited, hoping only that she could see the truth of all he was feeling as his eyes locked with hers.

After a long moment of silence, her surprise seemed to fade, and she shook her head slowly. “You don’t.”

“I do.” He grinned in spite of himself, because _of course_ she would argue with him as he professed his love. It was Brienne, after all. Stubborn, scowling, beautiful Brienne.

She shot up from her seat, eyes filled with hurt. “Don’t mock me, Jaime.”

He immediately stood to face her. She took a half-step back, and Jaime followed.

“I’m not mocking you. I swear it.” He paused, searching her wounded eyes. “I've done many things, Brienne, but I wouldn't lie to you. Especially about this.”

The hurt melted from her expression, replaced by disbelief. Her shoulders slumped. “You _can’t_ …”

Jaime’s forehead creased as he regarded her. Something about the note of despair in her voice had filled him with a sudden and bone-deep certainty that he was not alone in his affections.

That was not the problem, he realized.

His heart nearly broke as he watched her internal struggle, so clear on her face that he could almost hear the voice inside of her insisting that what he said could not be true. Years of her life had taught her not to believe, had confirmed that love, for her, wasn’t possible. Men had belittled her, criticized her, mocked her. Jaime, to his disgrace, had cast countless stones at her himself.

But behind the uncertainty and doubt, Jaime could also feel how much she _wanted it to be true_. He could see, beneath the stoicism she wore like a second skin, to the place where Brienne hid her softness and her pain. Her hope, and her longing. Jaime saw, and he loved her all the more for it—his strong and noble warrior with a deeply feeling heart.

Perhaps it was what they had lived through together, what they had shared, that allowed Jaime to see her so clearly. Or maybe it was because he, too, had habitually shown a different, harder face to the world: always ready with a cutting remark, armed with an air of careless disdain and arrogant superiority. But it was all a lie, a shield, to protect _his_ deeply feeling heart.

He, too, had always wanted to be loved, and that want had also brought him shame. He had fought and killed and done terrible, unforgivable things for love. Things he would never do again. Things Brienne would never ask of him.

Maybe he could see her longing because it was _his_ longing, too.

Jaime wished he had two hands to reach for her, but had to make do with just the one. Hers felt warm and surprisingly soft when he grasped it with his own.

“But I do, Brienne. And I didn’t choose it, but I would."

Something shifted in her face, in her eyes. And Jaime could see that though she did not understand, she trusted him enough that she had begun to believe him.

“Why?” she nearly whispered.

He exhaled a low laugh, sliding his thumb affectionately across her hand. “Only you would ask such a question.”

Her stare remained fixed, still a bit uncertain, and vaguely hopeful. She had softened, though, and that buoyed him.

“Because of who you are, Brienne. I can give you no other reason.”

“But, your sister—”

He pulled their clasped hands to his chest. “My heart is _yours_. It will always be yours.”

Brienne’s eyes grew watery, and she pressed her lips together.

“If you wish, another time I will tell you all you want to know about what passed between Cersei and I,” Jaime continued, determined to make her see. “For now, all I will say is that, yes, I did love her. But I do not now, nor ever will again. And what I feel for you has nothing to do with her. I swear to you.”

He could feel his heartbeat through their joined hands, still clutched against him. She gave a little nod, and relief washed over him like a wave. It was a start.

“Well, then. Might there be room in _your_ heart for an old, one-handed fool who has taken far too long to ask it of you?”

He nearly jumped at the feather-light touch of her other hand on his arm. Surprised, and delighted, Jaime bit back a smile. But then her hand slid lower, until it rested near the end of his handless arm, and he had to fight the urge to pull it away from her. Brienne seemed to see, and gave his stump a reassuring squeeze that made his breath catch.

“Jaime, you have to know that I…” She paused, exhaling a heavy sigh and searching his face once more with her piercing blue gaze. “I love you _more_ for this, not in spite of it.”

Eyes burning, Jaime could only stare at her in wonder. He had known he mattered to her, but hearing those words from her lips was more than he had ever dared to wish for.

A warm sensation spread throughout his body, settling in his chest, and Jaime realized that he was _happy_ for the first time in what felt like years.

“Truly, Brienne?”

She nodded, and then she smiled. It was a small thing, a subtle curve of her lips, a shining in her eyes—but to Jaime, it was like the sunrise.

Releasing her hand, he reached up to cup the pale curve of her neck, sliding his handless arm around her waist to draw her closer. As he pulled her gently toward him, Jaime found he had to stretch up slightly to meet her. And he didn’t mind at all.

He touched his lips to hers, a whispering, reverent brush and then a tender, firm pressure. And when he felt her soften into his embrace, felt her lips move timidly back against his own, Jaime smiled into her mouth.

There would be time for words and explanations and plans—gods, he hoped there would be plans—later. But now that Jaime was _finally_ in the arms of the woman he loved, he wasn’t going to waste it.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, it turns out that these two were much harder for me to write than I expected. I hope it was still enjoyable!


	3. A Dance

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I never meant for this to be anything beyond an exploration of and argument for Jaime’s feelings for Brienne, or for it to be more than two or three chapters. Alas, I can’t seem to get these two out of my head. 
> 
> So, I’ve let this little story go where it wants to go. Which is, it turns out, a wishful imagining of the path forward for my beloved pair. I hope you’ll stick with me!

He watched Pod scramble up off the ground for the third time in less than two minutes. Breathless but determined, the lad once again leapt forward in attack against Brienne. This time, he lasted a bit longer—until he made the mistake of lunging toward her, seemingly with all his strength. Brienne sidestepped him easily, and then swiftly kicked Pod’s feet out from under him. She hadn’t even used her sword.

“I’ve told you not to lunge,” she admonished, looking down at him. Her voice had been stern, but not harshly so, and her expression was calm.

Pod didn’t reply; he just regained his feet with a grimace and charged after her again, training sword gripped tightly in his hand.

Jaime smiled as he watched them. She was a good teacher. Hard, but patient. And she cared for her squire. Anyone could see that.

She was also utterly bewitching with a sword in her hand.

He marveled at each of Brienne’s movements, unable to fathom how he’d ever deemed them graceless. What she lacked in polish, she more than made up for in strength, certainty, and control. She was every inch a knight, he mused, watching her maneuver around the yard with power and confidence and purpose.

Jaime found it all terribly arousing. He couldn’t help but imagine her strong body, those ridiculously long legs, doing other things, in other places. Like his chamber, perhaps. With the door bolted.

He shifted uncomfortably, shaking those thoughts from his head. Jaime was determined not to dishonor her—at least, not yet. Although he suspected Brienne would allow it, if he asked. He’d felt the increasing boldness in her kisses, the way she leaned into his touch.

But they were only just settling into a different way of being with each other. They’d established a trust in their mutual feelings, and now Jaime could feel an amicable, affectionate attachment growing between them. Nevertheless, it was still new, untried and fragile, and he would not risk its burgeoning life—no matter how much he wanted her.

And he _wanted_. With an eagerness and insistent hunger that surprised him. At times, a mere glance from those sapphire eyes could send a bolt of arousal scorching through him.

Yet, he hadn’t touched her. Well, much. He found the prospect of taking her maidenhead strangely unnerving. Not the act itself, of course. Just thinking of it made him want to cross the yard and take her then and there. But Jaime had an unrelenting feeling that it would crack something open in him, something immense and unnameable he wasn’t sure he was ready to face.

He was also loath to undo the progress they’d made, to risk anything that would tip the balance they’d begun to find. Even if that thing was inside his own mind.

It had started out rather badly, he recalled. In fact, the day after he’d made his feelings known had been almost unbearable. The tender intimacy that had blossomed between them in the firelight seemed to wither and crumble away in the light of day, in the presence of others. When he’d approached her, feeling relaxed and happy, she had seemed nervous and uncomfortable. She barely spoke to him before making an excuse to absent herself from his presence.

Jaime hadn’t been so foolish as to expect her to embrace him in full view of everyone, but he hadn’t anticipated a cold rebuff. Or the uncertainty he’d seen in her eyes.

For a few agonizing hours, Jaime had vacillated between thinking Brienne had inexplicably changed her mind and the equally horrifying prospect that she had not, but wanted to keep this—keep _him_ —a secret. It had felt like taking a blow to the chest, made doubly painful because he had already wasted years of his life as a shameful secret. He wouldn’t accept that again. Not for himself, or for Brienne.

But later, she’d traipsed over to where he was eating his evening meal alone in the far corner of the Great Hall, Podrick in tow. Without speaking, she had climbed over the bench and sat down next to him, shoulder touching his.

“Jaime,” she’d said, voice soft, blue eyes filled with concern and fixed on his face.

Mesmerized by the intensity of her attention, it had taken his sluggish brain a moment to register the lack of “ser” in her address. But as soon as it had, he’d felt a renewed rush of love for her. He’d known, then, that she had not changed her mind—that his fearful imaginings had been just that.

“Brienne.”

“Lady Sansa required my presence today.”

It was not an apology, but Jaime had recognized the implied explanation in her words. In that moment, he’d discerned that she was still sorting out how to _be_ with him now. And he'd understood. Everything was the same, and yet all had changed.

“Well, I suppose you _are_ her sworn sword,” he’d said, flashing her his most winning smile, the torment of the day already forgotten.

Shortly after Brienne and Pod had joined him, Jaime noticed Sansa watching them from her place at the high table. Her eyes had met his and, incredibly, she had _smiled_ at him. Sansa Stark, who generally looked at him with nothing but disgust, distrust, and even hostility—on a good day, he'd hope for avoidance. Yet there she’d been, her normally icy blue gaze turned contemplative and a bit sorrowful, with a small, knowing smile on her lips. Jaime had nearly reeled back in shock.

But then Brienne had nudged his shoulder, and he’d shifted his eyes to her. Her gaze had contained a cautious, hopeful question, as if she worried he’d be upset that Sansa clearly knew what had passed between them.

In fact, Jaime had never felt _less_ upset in the whole of his life. Not only was he most definitely _not_ a secret, but Brienne had told Sansa that she was in love with a man who’d been the sworn enemy of her family. Ever honorable, his Brienne; she probably would have considered it a disloyalty to keep it from her lady. And despite the risk it posed to her—its potentially disastrous impact on her standing with Sansa, on her future—Brienne had claimed him.

Jaime had been so overcome with emotion that he could only stare at her, reaching his hand out to touch hers where it rested on the table. Brienne had looked down and given a funny little smile, and Jaime had nearly leaned over to kiss her—until a noise from across the table reminded him of Pod’s presence.

When he’d turned, Jaime found the lad looking almost frantically from Jaime to Brienne and back again, bewildered. The humorous mixture of disbelief and dawning comprehension on Pod’s face had made Jaime want to laugh. Instead, he’d just grinned at him and given Brienne’s hand a fond squeeze.

In the days that followed, Jaime had felt like a new man. Brienne not only spoke to him, but she sought his presence. They ate meals together, walked the castle together, and even sparred together. And whenever they managed to find a spot away from prying eyes, Jaime had pulled her close and kissed her senseless. Her initial clumsiness and hesitation had quickly transformed into an ardor that robbed Jaime of the ability to breathe. She tasted, somehow, of sunlight glinting on blue waters. Of sweetness and belonging and home.

Adding to his feeling of lightness, whispers no longer dogged his footsteps, and Jaime hadn’t heard the word Kingslayer in several days. Most people still treated him rather coldly, but the venom had drained away. Some of them even looked a little frightened of him, although he suspected it was the towering warrior at his side that inspired that particular reaction. Brienne, it seemed, had taken to glaring—or worse—at anyone who dared abuse him. Or that she’d _heard_ had abused him. Apparently she had more sway with these Northerners than Jaime realized. In the old days, it might have irritated him, the idea that she felt the need to defend him in such a way. Now, it just made him smile.

Brienne had also taken to smiling at _him_ , to his endless delight. It was a novelty that made his heart skitter, no matter how often it was repeated. Just like the warm, pleasant feeling that washed over him when she called him Jaime—which still felt like a victory, every single time.

When she’d first said it in front of Tyrion, Jaime had been afraid he’d never hear it from her lips again. Much to his chagrin, Tyrion had tried unsuccessfully to suppress a smile, shooting Jaime an amused look that was all raised eyebrows and laughing eyes. He’d just glared back warningly, and Tyrion’s mirth had been instantly replaced by something quizzical and somber.

That had been two days ago, and Tyrion hadn’t spoken to him since. Jaime wondered idly how much longer _that_ would last. Not very, if he had to guess.

Pod thudded against the ground again, sending a spray of snow over Jaime’s boots and drawing his attention back to the yard.

“Is it my turn yet?” Jaime called out. “Podrick here could clearly use a rest.”

Brienne looked at Pod, exhausted and prostrate on the ground, then back up at Jaime.

“Unless you’re afraid today’s the day I beat you,” he teased, picking up a training sword.

He couldn’t help himself. He still got a peevish enjoyment out of their banter, out of watching her rise to meet him. It had been baked into the bond between them from the very beginning, and Jaime relished it.

“I am absolutely unconcerned, shocking as it may be,” she retorted.

“It's only a matter of time, Brienne. I may be down a hand, but I'm still strong enough.”

He winked at her, but she just rolled her eyes.

“Come on, then,” she beckoned, taking up her fighting stance. Her expression was one of long-suffering annoyance, but Jaime saw something almost merry sparkling in her eyes.

Jaime stepped toward her and raised his sword. They began to move around each other fluidly, and he noticed that even this was starting to feel comfortable.

They’d been sparring together daily for about a week, and she had, unsurprisingly, beaten him soundly at every turn. Although she _had_ seemed impressed at how well he was doing with his left. Not totally hopeless, he believed was how she’d put it. From Brienne, that counted as glowing praise.

She didn’t shout instructions at him, the way she did with Pod. She didn’t scold or correct. When he grew frustrated with his body’s inability to do what he wanted it to, she’d console him—but never with pity. And she wouldn’t allow him to bemoan the loss of his hand or his once-infamous fighting prowess.

It helped that he was unashamed to try with her, even when he failed. And that he was determined to do all he could to strengthen himself for the coming fight, if for no other reason than to defend her life.

Since his youth, Jaime had felt he’d been born to wield a sword, and he saw the same in Brienne whenever they sparred. Everything about her bearing suggested that this was where she felt most herself, most at home. And as they circled and attacked and parried, Jaime felt a certain rightness, as if they’d been destined to dance this way together. It made him both wistful and strangely glad that his last _real_ dance, with his sword hand and his flawless instincts, had been with her.

She’d beaten him then, and she was beating him now.

After several minutes, however, Jaime found himself gifted with an unexpected window of opportunity. Brienne struck at him, and he blocked her blow with his golden hand. Then he wrenched forward, twisting just enough to prevent her from immediately freeing the blade.

She looked impressed, but Jaime could also see her working out her next move. He suspected she was unwilling to throw her full weight behind her arm to pry the sword free. The golden hand itself was virtually indestructible, but it was also attached to Jaime’s arm; any violent action carried the very real risk of hurting him. Taking advantage of her hesitation, Jaime feigned distress, casting a helpless look at the aforementioned appendage.

He saw the look of concern on her face and watched her posture relax. She’d just begun taking a step toward him when he dropped his blade and launched himself at her.

Her sword flew from her hand as she fell backwards, and it slipped free from his golden grasp. Her armor clanged as they tumbled to the ground, and he heard the rush of breath forced from her lungs as he came down on top of her.

Jaime expected her to struggle, but she just went absolutely still, looking up into his eyes with a scowl.

“I told you I was strong enough,” he boasted, smirking at her.

“You cheated,” she protested, but the smile spreading across her face belied her accusatory tone.

“Using the tools available to you is _not_ cheating, Brienne. Besides, you should know by now that you must specify your rules very carefully when dealing with a Lannister.”

“Because you’d follow them if I did?”

“Well, no, come to think of it.”

And then she _laughed_ , a low, musical sound that echoed around the yard. Jaime realized with a pang that he had never heard her laugh before.

“Yield, my lady,” he grinned, enjoying the look and feel of her beneath him—even clad in armor—far more than he should have.

Her eyes flickered to his mouth, and he felt her hands gripping his arms through the padding of his gambeson. For one wild moment, he thought she might actually kiss him, right there in the yard.

Instead, she gave a powerful buck of her body, using all of her considerable strength to dislodge him. Before Jaime knew what had happened, he was lying flat on his back, looking up at Brienne's outline against the gray sky.

“Not today, Jaime.”

He laughed, loud and bright, as she grasped his hand and pulled him to his feet.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading, and for your continued comments! It’s so lovely to hear what folks are liking. :)


	4. A Conversation

“You love her.”

It was not a question.

“Yes,” Jaime replied, meeting Tyrion’s keen, appraising gaze.

“For some time now, I think? Before you came to Winterfell.”

Jaime was stunned. Tyrion had, in fact, always seemed to know everything, but how could he have known that? _Jaime_ hadn’t even known, hadn’t allowed himself to know, for years.

“Yes.”

Tyrion nodded sadly. “I thought so.”

Jaime narrowed his eyes, watching Tyrion tip more wine into the cup on the table in front of him. He still didn’t know precisely why Tyrion had asked him to stay behind, but he presumed it had something to do with his brother’s sudden interest in his feelings for Brienne.

They had just concluded a meeting of the council, to which Jaime had been invited—for the first time since his arrival—to weigh in on military strategy. He assumed his inclusion had been at Tyrion’s suggestion; his little brother had seemed truly impressed by Jaime’s approach at Casterly Rock. What had come as a surprise to Tyrion had seemed to Jaime the obvious choice; but then, the Rock had always mattered far more to his brother than it ever had to him.

What good his ability to outwit Tyrion would be against an army of dead men and their puppet masters, however, was another question entirely. His years of experience in combat and command seemed altogether useless in the face of it, but he’d vowed to do his best.

Things between Jaime and his brother still felt strained, although he sensed they were on their way to an understanding. It grieved him that their bond would never be what it once was—but then, what would be? They were living in a different world; none of them could go back.

In spite of everything, Jaime still loved his brother. He always had. And he’d tried, albeit not always successfully, to protect him. He’d even been willing to give up his position in the Kingsguard to save Tyrion’s life. It hadn’t been fair, to himself or to Tyrion, but it had been the best he could do. But then, of course, it had all devolved into catastrophe.

For a long time, Jaime hadn’t known if he would ever be able to forgive Tyrion for what he'd done. He was _still_ angry with him, and hurt—but he also understood in a way he hadn’t before. None of his children had ever been good enough, had ever _done_ enough, to satisfy Tywin Lannister. But Tyrion had been the victim of their father’s most brutal savagery; he’d been scorned and abhorred for what he _was_ , not just what he’d done or failed to do.

And Jaime was more aware than ever that he had done his own fair share of abominable things. For different reasons, yes, but gods be damned if it didn’t always come back to the Lannister family. It had fucked them all, in one way or another.

Tyrion took a sip of his drink and grimaced. “This Northern wine is shit.”

Jaime huffed. _Some_ things would never change.

“And yet, you're drinking it.”

“Of course I am. What else would I do? Drink nothing?” Tyrion shuddered, green eyes twinkling. “Unthinkable.”

Jaime felt his patience thinning. Why in seven hells were they talking about the substandard quality of available alcohol?

“What do you want, Tyrion? And how did you know?” Jaime leaned forward in his chair and fixed his gaze on Tyrion's. He expected an answer—a real answer.

“It’s what I’m good at, brother. Knowing things.” Tyrion smiled sourly, but then his expression grew more serious. “I wasn't certain until you arrived here. But I suspected it when I saw the two of you in the Dragonpit. Few people would dare to accost you the way she did. Even fewer would walk away unscathed. And I can't think of anyone to whom you would actually _listen_ , especially where our dear sister is concerned. And yet, you did.”

Jaime frowned. “Not that it mattered.”

“Oh, but I think it did. You were never going to change Cersei’s mind, not if the wight did not. I was foolish to think otherwise myself. After all these years, I _still_ thought I could make her see reason.” Tyrion shook his head at himself. “No. It matters because you changed _your own_ mind. And if Brienne of Tarth telling you to fuck loyalty helped you do it, I'll toast her to the end of my days.”

Tyrion raised his glass, then downed the remaining liquid in a single swallow.

“There are far better reasons to toast her than that,” Jaime mumbled. “Her influence on me is the least remarkable thing about her.”

“I beg to differ,” Tyrion protested. “Still, she is undoubtedly a woman of many talents, with a long list of accomplishments that have absolutely nothing to do with you. Although I think the sword you gave her rather helped. And, of course, my squire. Pod seems very devoted to her, I must say.”

Jaime nodded. “She’s been teaching him.”

“For which he is most grateful, I'm sure. He appears to have improved a great deal under her instruction.”

Jaime couldn't help but smile. If the Pod he’d seen in the yard was much improved, it was difficult to imagine how hopeless he must have been to begin with.

“She's a good teacher.”

“Indeed. And an excellent fighter, by the sound of it. I heard she beat The Hound in single combat. Clegane says she nearly killed him.”

“I know.” Jaime grinned widely. He only wished he could have seen it.

“Your taste in women has changed quite dramatically,” Tyrion quipped. “From one hailed as the most beautiful in the Seven Kingdoms to the—”

Jaime slammed his golden hand down on the table, making Tyrion jump. “You _will not_ mock her.”

Tyrion’s eyes went wide and dazed, as if Jaime had struck his head rather than the table. “I assure you, I had no intention of doing so. I was _going_ to say to the mightiest warrior maiden.”

Jaime, disbelieving, just scowled at him.

Tyrion looked affronted. “Did you really think _I_ was going to fault her for her looks? Believe me, I know she can't help them.”

“There's nothing wrong with the way she looks,” Jaime snapped.

He knew what people had called her. Brienne the Beauty. Vicious idiots, the lot of them. They hadn't bothered to _really_ look at her. But Jaime had.

Brienne was no slight, delicate lady. She was strong and brave and _good_. From her sapphire eyes to her endless legs to the way her forehead rested perfectly against his when he held her in his arms, Jaime cherished everything about her. She was _Brienne_ , and that made her beautiful.

It occurred to Jaime that he hadn’t yet told her that. And he wanted to, even though she would likely not believe him. He would just have to find a way to convince her.

“No, there isn’t,” Tyrion conceded, smiling. “Gods, you really are smitten with her. She returns your affections, I hope?”

“She says so, yes.”

“You don't believe her?” Tyrion’s tone, and the lift of his brow, was skeptical.

“Of course I do. I just don't deserve her.”

Tyrion gave a doleful shake of his head. “You’re a better man than you give yourself credit for, Jaime. You always were.”

Jaime’s throat tightened as he regarded his brother, and he was flooded with a fresh hope that they could mend the rift remaining between them.

“Some of your choices could have been better,” Tyrion added, a wry smile twisting his mouth.

Jaime raised his eyebrows, unable to hold back a grin of his own. True to form, Tyrion would always lace his sincerity with sarcasm and irreverence—and perhaps a bit of laughter for good measure. But what else was there to do, with all that had happened? What else was left? Nothing but misery and pain, and Jaime found he didn't have the heart for it. The world was dark enough.

“Oh?” Jaime drawled. “Unlike yours, of course. A shining example to us all.”

Tyrion laughed. “Well, we are Lannisters. It wouldn't be reasonable to expect much better. Brienne, on the other hand, seems genuinely beyond reproach.”

“She is.”

“In that case, I’m glad to see you’ve finally given your heart to someone who’s worthy of it.”

“She’s…” Jaime couldn't finish, couldn't find words that didn't sound trite and absurd. Far, far too good for him? Making him a better man? Perfect? Everything?

Tyrion’s smile was uncharacteristically warm. “I know.”

Jaime just nodded.

“I'm not the only one who thinks your...association with her speaks well of you,” Tyrion said. “It's been enough to get you into Sansa’s good graces. Well, as much as you can ever hope to be. Which is still quite something.”

Jaime couldn't believe how quickly things had changed. Sansa was not hospitable, by any means. Often, she barely acknowledged him. But she tolerated his presence. He knew that she hadn't forgiven him, but he sensed that her hatred had cooled to a slightly milder dislike—something he’d never had any hope of achieving.

He felt a swell of pride in Brienne for how respected she was, for the incredible power of her good opinion. It was as if by seeing the best in him, she brought it forth and made it visible to others.

It had only redoubled Jaime’s determination to be worthy of it. Of her.

“I don’t think she was terribly surprised,” Tyrion continued, drawing Jaime's attention back from where it had wandered. “Apparently, Brienne had mentioned you before.”

“Had she?”

It made him intensely happy to know that Brienne had thought of him during their years apart. That he had been on her mind, as she had been on his.

Tyrion nodded. “One of the reasons Sansa felt secure sending Brienne to King's Landing was because _you_ would be there.”

Jaime's eyebrows shot up. Brienne had definitely not said anything about that.

“And it was fairly obvious to all of us from the moment you arrived who you were _really_ here for.”

Jaime cleared his throat uncomfortably. “What did Brienne say to Sansa, exactly?”

“About the two of you? You mean she didn't tell you?”

“No. But I didn't ask.”

“Oh, nothing of consequence,” Tyrion replied, waving his hand carelessly. “Only that you had declared your love for her, and that she loved you in return. And had, for some years. She made some acknowledgement of the dreadful history between our houses, and understood if Lady Sansa wanted to dismiss her from her service. But she swore her feelings for you wouldn’t interfere with it, so long as that service never required her to harm or dishonor you. Sansa said it was quite clear Brienne did not intend to give you up. And she didn't intend to give Brienne up. So, she gained a Lannister, for as long as Brienne remains in service to Winterfell.”

Jaime was speechless. He just sat there, tears pricking his eyes, staring at his brother in watery awe.

“She's a very remarkable woman.” Tyrion's green eyes were filled with sincerity, and perhaps a touch of admiration.

“Yes,” Jaime croaked.

“She’ll certainly have her work cut out for her, bringing that unshakeable moral code of hers to the Lannister family.”

Jaime opened his mouth to reply, but found that he couldn't. It wasn't that he hadn't thought about the possibility. He had. Daily. But something in him was holding back.

“Do you not intend to make her a Lannister?” Tyrion asked, forehead wrinkled in confusion.

“What if she doesn't want to be one?”

Tyrion’s eyebrows quirked. “Doesn't she?”

“I don't know.”

“Do you not _want_ to marry her?”

Jaime swallowed, looking away from Tyrion's interrogating gaze. “I don't know.”

“I don't think that's true. What's really stopping you? Please tell me it’s not Cersei.”

“No,” Jaime replied, terse and adamant. “Cersei has nothing to do with how I feel about Brienne.”

“Is it the child?” Tyrion's voice was strained, as if posing the question had distressed him.

“I'm not even sure there _is_ one,” Jaime admitted. “Or if it's mine. And if it is, I am truly sorry for it. Perhaps it's time for the Lannisters to pass into history. Sometimes I think it would be a better world if the line died with us.”

He looked up to find Tyrion studying him, his face full of sadness.

“You know I’ve had my troubles with our family, but I'm not sure I'd go that far. And it's certainly no reason not to marry the woman you love.”

Jaime ground his teeth together. Why was Tyrion pushing this? What did he care if Jaime married Brienne—or anyone?

Then his eyes fell on the silver pin on Tyrion’s chest. Of course. Hand of the Queen.

“This had better not have anything to do with politics, Tyrion,” Jaime warned. “If you’re plotting some grand alliance to ensure loyalty to your Targaryen queen from the Westerlands to Tarth, I want no part of it. I’m done with politics.”

“Why, brother. You wound me.”

“I’m serious.”

“I won’t say it hadn't crossed my mind,” Tyrion shrugged. “But no, that isn't why it matters to me. This may surprise you, Jaime, but I'd like to see you happy.”

Jaime didn’t know whether or not he believed him. It was so damned hard to tell when Tyrion was truly in earnest.

Tyrion sighed. “Yes, it is my duty as Hand to plan for what happens if we survive this war. But we may not. There is a very real possibility we will all soon be dead. So if you have the chance to spend what remains of your life with the woman you love, then I suggest you do it. I can’t fathom why you wouldn't at least _ask_ her. And, yes, she could say no. Although I expect she won't.”

“She deserves better.”

The words were out of Jaime's mouth before he even realized he’d thought them. That was the real crux of it, though. As ridiculous as it seemed, even to himself, Jaime really believed that to marry Brienne would be to burden her, to tarnish her, with his name and his past.

Tyrion was looking at Jaime as if he thought him a fool. Jaime _felt_ like a fool.

“Yes, yes. You've said that. But she wants _you_. Just think about it, Jaime. We may not have much time. How do you want to spend it?”

The words seemed to echo in Jaime’s head, rippling over all the doubts and the memories and the time he had already wasted. He did feel deeply connected to Brienne in a way he’d never felt with anyone, even Cersei, who he’d spent most of his life believing was his other half. And Jaime had found more warmth and quiet affection in the days they’d spent together at Winterfell than he had in years—decades, perhaps.

Tyrion was right, loath as Jaime was to admit it. He wanted to spend the time he had left, however long it was, with Brienne. And if they did survive, he couldn't imagine going back to a life without her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you didn't mind the minor break from our main pair. Brienne returns in the next chapter, I promise! 
> 
> Also, Tyrion was just fantastic fun to write. :) 
> 
> Thank you all for reading!


	5. An Unexpected Guest

Jaime advanced on her, forcefully swinging his sword. Brienne blocked him, but only just in time, and she stumbled back a few steps before regaining her stance.

He lifted his eyebrows, feeling a warm rush of satisfaction.

Brienne’s answering expression was subtle, but it wasn’t lost on him. She had this adorable way of pursing her lips into a very faint smile whenever she was trying not to look too pleased about something. It went straight to the center of Jaime’s chest every single time.  

The look vanished from her face as quickly as it had appeared. She surged forward and he parried her strike, spinning away from her easily before pressing his own attack.

He still couldn’t beat her, but he was getting stronger. He felt it in his arm and shoulders, and in the way Brienne held less of herself back. Jaime could feel the power in her blows and see the determined concentration on her face—she actually had to expend some effort to fight him.

For the first time since he’d arrived, Jaime was beginning to think he might not be cut down in the very first battle. Practice had made him more sure of himself, boosted his endurance, and brought his fighting mind back to life. With every hour of training, his body was developing new instincts, learning to move again. Sparring with Brienne was also influencing him in an unexpected way, as Jaime found himself embracing her straightforward style. The finesse he’d had with his right hand was impossible with his left, and it was easier to control his movements by focusing on power and precision over any sort of cleverness or flair.

And he was still lighter on his feet than she was—a fact he was fairly certain annoyed her, much to his amusement.

“Let’s stop for a bit,” she said, holding up her hand.

Jaime knew she didn’t really need a break. But she could obviously see that _he_ did, as he expelled great clouds of breath into the bitter air. He shifted the training sword to the crook of his right arm so he could wipe the sweat from his brow. It still irritated him that he had to work so hard. It had been so easy before.

Then again, he was not so young as he used to be. His beard was evidence enough of that; it contained far more silver than it had when the two of them trudged across the Riverlands.

“You’re improving, Jaime.” 

“Maybe,” he acknowledged. “I’ll never be what I was.”

“Perhaps not,” she conceded. “But you’re much more endurable this way. Arrogance was never your most attractive quality.”

The words might have sounded cutting if not for the teasing lilt in Brienne’s voice—and for the smirk fighting for life at the edges of her mouth. 

Jaime smiled broadly. He absolutely loved it when she initiated their banter, rare occasion though it was. “Oh? What would that be, then?”

He’d expected his query to make her uncomfortable; that sort of thing usually did. But she just stared at him coolly, sapphire eyes shining.

“The last thing _you_ need is someone else telling you how handsome you are. Although, since you ask, I am rather fond of the beard.”

He laughed, his hand going to his cheek of its own accord. “And here I was thinking it makes me look quite the old man. I guess it stays, then. Though I _do_ hope there are other things about me that you like.”

She rolled her eyes. “One or two, perhaps. But I wouldn’t want it going to your head.”

He grinned devilishly. “Shall I list _your_ most attractive qualities, then? Unlike me, you could use a touch more arrogance, Brienne.”

The set of her jaw told Jaime he was about to be scolded, but then something over his head caught her eye—and her attention. He turned, his gaze following hers, only to find Tyrion ambling leisurely along the walkway that led to the outer ramparts. Jaime narrowed his eyes. Had he been watching them?

“What’s _he_ doing out here?” Brienne asked, her voice deliberately low.

“Who knows? Plotting something, probably.”

Ever since their conversation, Jaime hadn’t been able to get Tyrion’s words out of his head. He _wanted_ to marry Brienne; he no longer had any doubt about that. He wasn’t sure  _he_ deserved to be happy, but she certainly did. The question was, would marrying Jaime Lannister make her so?

He turned back to her, intending to suggest they resume their sparring session, and was startled to find her studying him attentively.

“Is everything alright, between the two of you?” 

Jaime was touched by the gentle concern he saw in her eyes.

“Not yet. But it will be, sooner or later.”

“Sooner might be better, Jaime, if you can manage it. No matter what’s happened, he’s still your brother.”

His chest twinged. She was right, of course, but he couldn’t help but wonder if Brienne would feel as kindly toward Tyrion if she knew about their discussion. Because as much as Jaime wanted to believe his brother’s motives were purely altruistic, he didn’t. Yes, Tyrion might genuinely care about Jaime’s happiness. But he knew his brother far too well to believe he wouldn't be tempted by the possibility of a strategic benefit.

Jaime sighed. “We’re on far better terms than we were, Brienne. Better than I ever thought we would be again. And I have every intention of...”

His words trailed away at the sudden sound of a commotion somewhere above them. They were both craning their necks to see when a shout pierced the air. 

“Riders approaching!”

Jaime’s eyes immediately sought hers, finding them wide with surprise and alarm. Wordlessly, they turned together toward the nearest stairs, training swords clattering to the frozen ground.

Reaching them first, he began ascending as quickly as his limbs would allow. She’d been right on his heels, so Jaime was confused by the momentary delay before he heard Brienne pounding up behind him. When he turned to look, he saw her buckling Oathkeeper to her hip as she climbed. Of course. Always prepared, his Brienne.

Jaime arrived at the edge of the rampart to find Tyrion already there, standing calmly on a crate that allowed him to see over the wall. He somehow managed to make the perch look dignified. 

The moment he’d seen his brother, Jaime’s heart had slowed. Whoever the riders were, they had obviously been anticipated—even if no one had bothered to tell _him_. That, he supposed, was to be expected, but it troubled him that Brienne seemed equally in the dark.

But then, looking out into the snow, Jaime knew why. 

About a dozen riders were winding through the center of the vast camp that now stood outside Winterfell’s walls. The fields were full of Dothraki, Unsulllied, Northmen, and soldiers from the Vale, many of whom were watching their newly arrived visitors—men dressed in crimson and glinting with gold—making their way up the road.

They were led by a man in black, carrying a white flag that rippled in the winter wind.

“I didn't believe it when they told me,” Tyrion said dryly. “I said I had to see it with my own eyes.”

“Is that who I think it is?” Brienne’s voice was laced with disbelief. 

Tyrion grinned. “Yes, my lady, it is.”

Ser Bronn of the Blackwater rode through the now-open castle gates, followed by a handful of Lannister soldiers.

Jaime turned to glare accusingly at his brother. “You knew they were coming.” 

“Of course I did. Our scouts spotted them three days ago. They were intercepted and questioned.” 

Dread settled in Jaime's gut. "Is it an envoy?” 

Had Cersei sent Bronn to negotiate? To retrieve him? To kill him? Although he thought less about his sister with each passing day, Jaime couldn't banish the nagging feeling that she wasn't quite done with him. He had left her, and he knew she hated him for that. And Cersei had a seemingly limitless capacity for hate.  

Sending his own man after him would be just like her, calculated to unbalance and disturb him—and to cut as deeply as possible. 

But then Jaime felt Brienne’s presence at his side, and his anxiety eased. If that was Cersei’s plan, it would fail. He would no longer be toyed with. He would no longer be manipulated or controlled.

“No,” Tyrion replied. “At least, not according to Bronn. He says he’s come to join the fight. And unlike the last rider from the south, _he’s_ brought men.”

“Men?” Jaime scoffed. While they needed every fighter they could get, a dozen men from the Lannister army wouldn’t exactly tip the scales.

“Yes. About two thousand Lannister soldiers.” Tyrion’s green eyes gleamed with delight.

Brienne blanched. “Two _thousand_?”

Jaime blinked at her, feeling as shocked as she looked.

Though it was far less than the tens of thousands Jaime had originally planned to lead north, the number was unquestionably staggering. The idea that Bronn himself would ride into danger  _by choice_ was enough to stretch belief. But to gather that many men, against the orders of the crown—to steal them from _Cersei_ —was nothing short of remarkable. 

A few hundred men would have been impressive. Two thousand was inconceivable.

“What does he want in return?” Brienne inquired, looking incisively at his brother.

Tyrion barked a laugh. “Why, you know him better than I thought. Gold, I'm sure. I _did_ offer to pay him double.”

“Don't forget about the lordship, wife, and castle,” Jaime added, watching Bronn dismount below them. “Probably several.”

“Castles or wives?”

Jaime smiled wryly. “Knowing Bronn? Both.”

“But how did he do it?” Brienne frowned, peering at Bronn with narrowed eyes. “I mean, the Queen would have tried to stop him poaching her soldiers, wouldn’t she?”

“That _is_ the question, isn't it?” Tyrion mused. “I suppose we’ll have to go and ask him.”

The three of them made their way down to where Bronn and his party were surrounded by Winterfell’s guards. Bronn appeared as sure of himself as ever, Jaime noted, although the soldiers accompanying him looked liked they might be rethinking their decision. And who could blame them? They’d just ridden straight into the mouth of the wolf—and the dragon. Jaime still wasn't sure it was a safe place for lions. 

“This might be the most unlikely welcoming procession I’ve ever seen,” Bronn proclaimed, swaggering over to meet them at the bottom of the stairs. “The Lannister brothers together again. And the Lady Brienne, of course.” 

“I wouldn’t be so sure we’re here to welcome you.” Tyrion cocked an eyebrow at their unexpected guest, but then his face relaxed into a smile. “It certainly took you long enough.”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Bronn retorted, clear blue eyes flashing. “The _two thousand_ men I brought with me must have slowed me down a bit. And we nearly froze to death in all this fucking snow.”

“Good thing you didn’t get lost, then,” Tyrion quipped. 

“No thanks to this cunt.” Bronn jabbed his thumb in Jaime’s direction, then turned to face him. “What the fuck were you thinking, leaving the city without me?”

Jaime shook his head. “Good to see you, too, Bronn.”

“He probably thought you’d stay and work for Cersei,” Tyrion interjected. “She definitely could have paid you with all that Tyrell gold. And you seemed very content in King’s Landing, the last time we spoke.”

Bronn snorted. “Fuck your sister. If she'll throw _him_ over, what possible hope could I have that she’d deliver on her promises? Or that she wouldn't just decide to kill me for sport, and send my head to you lot on a spike. Besides, I'd prefer to fight on the side _with_ the dragons, thank you very much.” 

“And here I was thinking you'd had an attack of conscience,” Jaime muttered.

“My conscience won't do me much good if I’m dead, now will it? Or pay me what I’m owed.” Bronn poked Jaime sharply in the chest. “Remember, I’m the only one who gets to kill you.”

Brienne stepped forward slightly, flanking Jaime more closely and resting her hand on Oathkeeper’s hilt. Jaime could see the tightness in Tyrion’s jaw as he fought the urge to smile.

Bronn raised his eyebrows pointedly. “Don’t worry, my lady. I’m not actually going to kill him. I haven’t saved the lives of _both_ Lannister brothers to watch either of them die now." 

Jaime met Tyrion’s eyes briefly, and then he deliberately redirected the conversation. “How did you manage it? The men?” 

“It was easier than you’d think,” Bronn shrugged. “The army fought for you, not your sister. And Jaime Lannister leaving the Queen to ride north and fight for a _different_ queen doesn’t exactly inspire confidence in the crown.”

“Do they know what they’re facing?” Brienne nodded at the nearby soldiers.

“They do. Bring a living dead man to a city of a million people, and word has a way of spreading.”

“And you weren’t pursued? Cersei just let you take them?” Jaime waited for the catch—it didn’t make any sense. Cersei had plotted with Euron Greyjoy to ferry _more_ men to her cause; why would she give up the ones she already had without a fight?

“Not that I know of. But I didn't exactly announce my intentions when I left the city, did I? And I didn’t collect them all at once.”

“Cersei has far more pressing concerns than losing a few thousand men,” Tyrion posited, waving his hand in a vaguely southern direction. “She made it quite clear that she doesn't want anything to do with us until the battle with the dead is over. Why waste the effort to retrieve a few disloyal men when her army is tens of thousands strong? She probably assumes they'll die with the rest of us, and she'll still have her mercenaries when the time comes.” 

Jaime ground his teeth. Tyrion's argument was sound, but he still had a hard time believing that Cersei would just let them go. Especially knowing they were riding to the aid of her brothers, who she believed had both betrayed her. 

“Podrick Payne!” Bronn exclaimed, snapping Jaime out of this thoughts. “Still alive, I see?”

Pod smiled warily as he walked over to join them. When Bronn tried to hook an arm around his neck, the squire spun deftly away.

“Well, well. Someone's gotten sharper.”

Pod grinned. “I told you Lady Brienne was training me.”

Jaime felt a touch at his elbow, and looked down to find Tyrion standing close beside him. Quietly, he drew Jaime away. Bronn continued giving Pod a dose of good-natured grief, while Brienne listened with crossed arms and a reproving scowl.

When they were out of earshot, Tyrion stopped and glanced up into Jaime’s eyes. He looked as if he were trying to solve a particularly difficult riddle. “Do you believe him?”

“I don’t know. Do you?”

Tyrion sighed. “Yes. If for no other reason than I would always trust Bronn to look out for his own interests. And he has a much better chance of survival with us than with Cersei.” 

“He could have left Westeros,” Jaime suggested. “He’s always complaining about money, but he had more than enough gold to establish himself somewhere in Essos.” 

“And yet, here he is.”

"Yes. Here he is,” Jaime repeated thoughtfully. Perhaps Brienne hadn’t been his only friend after all. 

“The men look nervous,” Tyrion remarked, running a hand absentmindedly through his dark beard. “Then again, they did just ride into their enemy’s camp.” 

“Don’t forget, Lannister soldiers have seen what dragons and Dothraki can do if we decide they aren't welcome.” Jaime remembered that horrific day as vividly as if it had been yesterday.

“Indeed,” Tyrion conceded. Then he paused, beckoning to Brienne and waiting to continue until she had joined them. “We’ll have to make arrangements to keep them separate from the others, at least for now. We don’t need any skirmishes breaking out. Although a battle or two fighting on the same side against an army of wights ought to sort that out.”

“You’ll let them fight, then?” Jaime asked. 

“I don’t see why not.” 

“I think our people will be grateful,” Brienne said. “We need all the help we can get, and it was very brave of these men to come when they did not have to.”

Jaime considered her fondly. Perhaps she was being naive, thinking that years of war and hate could be forgotten that quickly—but he also hoped she was right. If he’d been able to bring all his forces, they would have had to fight side by side. And those men would have been fighting by order, not by choice.

“Indeed they didn’t,” Tyrion replied. “But they followed their leader.” 

“Bronn? You'll have him command them, then?” Jaime doubted whether Bronn would be the best choice, but he supposed it made sense. He’d been fighting at Jaime’s side long enough to learn the men, for the men to learn him. And if they’d followed him to Winterfell, they obviously had a least a measure of trust in him.

Tyrion huffed. “Not Bronn, you idiot. You.”

“What?” Jaime reared back, shaking his head. “No. Your queen, the Starks, they'll never allow it.”

“Yes, they will. We've already discussed it. The men are here because their commander is here. So, you will command them.” Tyrion shifted his eyes to Brienne. “With Bronn on one side, and Lady Brienne on the other. If she'll accept the post, of course. I'm sure Lady Sansa can find someone else to guard her side, when the time comes.”

Brienne looked utterly shocked, her gaze flashing rapidly from Tyrion's up to his own. There was a question in her eyes, he realized, as well as astonishment. Brienne would not insert herself into his army, into his command, without his consent. 

Jaime was torn. The idea of Brienne out of danger, inasmuch as that was possible, appealed to him. A direct order from Sansa to remain at her side was about the only hope he had of making that thought a reality, and it wasn't even a great hope. And yet, he didn’t think he could give up the chance to have her guaranteed at _his_ side. Not just for the chance to protect her, but to see her where she belonged—as a knight leading the field, steadfast and brave in the face of danger. She was the best possible example for his men to follow. 

He tilted his head at her, hoping she could see the answer in his eyes. “That’s up to Brienne.”

She blinked. “But will they listen to a woman?”

“They will if Jaime tells them to,” Tyrion assured her. 

“I won’t need to tell them anything, once they've seen you fight.”

“I'll have to discuss it with Lady Sansa,” Brienne said, her voice soft but steady. “But if she consents, then I'd be honored.”

To Tyrion, Brienne may have seemed her usual guarded, stoic self, but Jaime could see the pride shining in her eyes—alongside a determination not to let _him_ out of _her_ sight. 

“Good.” Tyrion clapped his hands together. “I'm sure she'll agree. But, by all means, go and ask her.” 

“What, now?” Brienne gave Tyrion a reproachful look.

“Why wait? We need to make arrangements, and the sooner the better.”

Brienne looked at Jaime, and he nodded. She heaved a disapproving sigh as she turned to go, dark cloak billowing behind her and scattering the snow in her wake. Jaime couldn't help but smile.

“Got everything sorted, then?”

Jaime turned abruptly at the nearness of Bronn’s voice. He hadn’t realized Bronn and Pod had rejoined them, and he wondered how much they’d heard.

“As a matter of fact, yes,” Tyrion replied cheerfully. “Come on, Podrick. This calls for a celebratory drink.”

The two of them wandered off in the same direction as Brienne, leaving Jaime standing alone next to Bronn.

“Pod tells me you two have sorted things out at last,” Bronn said quietly. Jaime glanced over at him, expecting to find Bronn pointing at Tyrion. Instead, he was gesturing at Brienne’s retreating form. “About bloody time.”

Gods, had _everyone_ known?

“Don't look at me like that,” Bronn objected. “You've been pining after her for years.”

Jaime cringed. “I wouldn't say that.” 

“I would.”

“And what business is it of yours, exactly?”

“None at all. But when has that ever stopped me before?” Bronn grinned, clapping a hand on Jaime's shoulder. “Nothing like the end of the world to make a man reexamine his priorities, ay?”

“Is that what you're doing?”

“Maybe. Or maybe I just want the gold.” 

Jaime gave a long-suffering shake of his head. “Remind me again why I tolerate you?”

“Probably because I keep saving your fucking life.”

“That must be it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As with nearly everything in this story, I’m sure nothing remotely close to this will actually happen. But since I’m fulfilling my wish list for season 8, I thought I might as well go for it. And I do think Bronn’s got a bit more loyalty in him than he wants everyone to believe. :) 
> 
> As ever, thank you for reading! Cheers to those who’ve left such kind comments. Knowing that you’re enjoying the story keeps me going in those moments when it would be easier to throw in the towel. <3
> 
> Oh, and the next chapter is all JB. So if you're hankering for that, just hang in there!


	6. A Proposal

There was something different about the air. Jaime could feel it as he stood atop the ramparts, just as he had in the yard earlier that day. Everyone had been enjoying the rare break in the snow, but the accompanying cold was somehow heavier against his skin and sharper in his chest—and it made him uneasy.

As he surveyed the camps surrounding Winterfell, Jaime saw nothing out of order. Campfires flickered like candle flames across the dark fields, and the low murmur of men’s voices was interrupted only by the periodic whickering of horses. None of them seemed to sense the change.

Looking out at their gathered forces was doing nothing to lift Jaime’s mood. In spite of their numbers, he couldn’t help but worry that they wouldn't be enough.

Bronn’s arrival and the unexpected addition to their army had been heartening, but it also bitterly reminded Jaime of the men he hadn't been able to muster himself. And while the entirety of the Lannister army might _still_ not have been enough, it would have been more.

Tilting his head back, Jaime studied the sky. For the first time in weeks, he could see the stars shining above him, points of light shimmering in the darkness. Clouds loomed on the horizon, but he had a momentarily unobstructed view.

“It’s been ages since I’ve seen the stars.”

He turned his head toward the sound of Brienne’s voice, finding her considering him from a few feet away. Her eyes, he noticed, were fixed on him rather than the sky.

“What are you doing up here?” she asked softly, her brow wrinkled in mild concern.

Jaime bit back a smile. She hadn’t said _without me_ , but he’d heard the words in her question, nonetheless.

“Just thinking.”

He faced the vast fields once more as Brienne came up beside him, and he immediately felt the calming effect of her presence. Her nearness alone was enough to relax him, and Jaime affectionately wondered when _that_ had begun. As he cast his mind back, he found he couldn’t recall a time when it hadn’t been true. She had been an inexplicably steadying influence on him from the beginning, and he needed her now more than ever.

“What about?”

He drew in a deep breath and exhaled, long and slow. “Do you feel that? The change in the air?”

She hummed thoughtfully. “It's a bit colder, perhaps.”

“Yes, but there’s something else.” Jaime moved closer to her, pressing their shoulders together. “I’m afraid we don't have much time.”

Brienne turned to meet his gaze, a knowing expression on her face. “You don’t think we're ready.”

“No, I don’t. But we have little choice.” Jaime shook his head, gesturing toward the camps. “We have some good fighters, though not as many as I would like. The Unsullied are disciplined, the Westerosi men are loyal and brave, and the Dothraki are terrifying. But they’re facing an army of a hundred thousand dead men, Brienne. I don’t know how we can ever be ready for that, no matter how many shards of dragonglass or Valyrian steel blades we have. And we don’t have nearly enough.” 

“We have the dragons,” she offered, though whether it was an attempt to console him or herself, Jaime couldn’t tell.

“Well, yes,” he acknowledged. “But I'd prefer not to get too close to them. I'm not sure the big one has forgiven me for trying to kill its mother.”

“That _was_ extraordinarily reckless, even for you.” Her words were reproachful, but Jaime swore he could hear a smile in her voice.

He huffed. “Yes, it was. The likes of which I don't intend to repeat, I promise you.”

“I certainly hope not.”

“But that doesn’t mean I want to be anywhere near them. I’ve seen what they can do to men, Brienne.” Jaime closed his eyes against the memory. “It melted them in their armor. It turned them to ash.”

She nodded. “I can’t say I relish the idea of being on a battlefield with them breathing fire all around me. But Queen Daenerys will have them well in hand.”

“I'm not sure she's forgiven me, either,” Jaime objected. “But, as much as I dislike them, we don't have a choice. Especially since the enemy has one as well. The idea of facing it, even with two of them on our side, isn’t something I care to dwell on.”

She turned to face him more fully, laying her hand on his arm.

“At least we’ll face it together,” she said, a sudden warmth in her voice. “There's no one I'd rather fight beside, Jaime. Whatever happens.”

Jaime's chest tightened as he reached for her, pulling her in for a kiss. The tip of her nose was cold against his cheek, but her lips were warm. He would never tire of kissing her—the soft fullness of her lips, the nearly perfect alignment of their mouths, the solidity of her body against his.

When their lips parted, he pressed his forehead to hers, still wanting to be close to her. Their misty breaths mingled in the frigid air.

Even with all the horror and violence that lurked in wait for them, out there in the dark, Jaime found himself incapable of distress when he had Brienne in his arms. He could only revel in the feeling of having _this_ —this closeness, this magnificent woman, this love.

And he knew with certainty that he never wanted to do without it again. 

“Marry me,” he murmured, tightening his hold on her.

Brienne pulled her head back to look into his eyes. Hers were a glittering blue, bright as the stars.

“What?” Her voice was breathless.

Jaime cupped her pale cheek with his gloved hand. “I'm asking you to be my wife, Brienne, when all this is over. Be mine, let me be yours, until the end of our days.” 

She stared at him unblinkingly, lips parted in surprise.

“You'll be spending your life with me regardless, you know,” he teased. “So you might as well say yes.”

For a moment, Brienne looked as if she might smile, but then her lips curved into a frown. The creases between her eyebrows told him she was thinking deeply. In such cases, Jaime had learned to wait—and hope.

When she finally replied, her voice was low and clear. “I never expected to marry, Jaime.”

“Is that a no?”

Her gaze remained steadily fixed on his. “No.”

He grinned. “Is that a yes?”

Brienne’s answering smile was small and unsure, and she slowly pulled away from him. Jaime felt bereft at her loss, and momentarily afraid. Why wasn't it a yes?

He sighed. “I never thought I would marry, either. I never thought there would be anyone I'd _want_ to marry. And yet, here we are.”  

“Why?” The hesitation in her eyes as they swept across his face belied the steadiness in her voice.

“Ah, yes. Your favorite question.” Jaime shook his head sadly. He thought they’d gotten past any such doubts, but he would continue to reassure her as often as she needed it. “Because I love you, Brienne. Because I want to spend all the days I have left at your side. Because I'm not sure how much longer I can go without touching you.”

Her eyes widened, and she immediately averted her gaze. As Jaime watched the faintest of pinks bloom to life on her cheeks, he had to fight the impulse to smile. She would probably say it was just the cold.

“We don’t have to be married for that.” Brienne brought her eyes back up to meet his almost timidly. “I would not stop you.”

Jaime gaped at her for a long moment in absolute surprise. Then he grinned in delight. “Don’t tempt me. It’s nearly killed me to keep away from you as it is. But I’ve spent my life breaking the rules. With you, I would quite like to follow them.”

She opened her mouth to protest, but Jaime held up his hand to stop her.

“Let me be the man of honor you’ve always said I am, Brienne. Let me earn that." 

Her chin wobbled endearingly, and he could see tears gathering in her eyes.

“You have already earned it.”

He swallowed thickly, feeling the sting of his own tears. “Then be my wife. Unless you don’t want me for a husband. Unless you don’t want to be Lannister.”  

“No!” she exclaimed. The vehemence of her reply both startled and encouraged him. “That has nothing to do with it, Jaime. But I...”

“What then?” he prodded. “Do you think I have some ridiculous wifely expectations of you? You should know better than that by now. I have no desire to change you, Brienne. I love you as you are. We can be sellswords, for all I care.”

She shook her head, eyes shining with the strangest mixture of gratitude and regret. “It’s not that. It’s just...I have a duty to Tarth.”

Jaime narrowed his eyes, puzzled. Her voice had been oddly strained, as if she believed that posed a problem—as if she didn’t realize he already _knew_ that.

“Of course you do. And I would’ve thought marriage had a part in that,” he replied, reaching for her hand. “I imagine your father would be pleased, although possibly not with me.” 

“Jaime,” she scolded gently.

“The fact that I love his daughter should recommend me at least a little, I hope. That and my charm, of course.”

She rolled her eyes, but he could see the smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. “My father isn't what worries me.” 

“Is it me, then?” He leaned toward her, lifting his eyebrows. “You think I'll change my mind? Because I won’t, Brienne.”

“No, of course not,” she insisted, squeezing his hand.

Jaime was relieved; she trusted him that much, at least. But her hesitation still bewildered him. What, exactly, was the problem?

“Do you not want to go back, then? To Tarth?”

“I don’t know.” She had a faraway look on her face. “But I suspect I will. I owe my father that much. I've just been away so long, it's hard to imagine going home. Leaving...everything.”

Jaime exhaled a heavy sigh, finally understanding. She had somehow got the thought in her head that it would mean leaving _him_.

He, on the other hand, thought Tarth sounded like a rather good idea. Brienne would make an excellent leader—Jaime had no doubt of that. It was why he wanted her by his side at the head of the Lannister forces. She was honest and strong, compassionate and fair, and Tarth would be lucky to have her. If she chose that life for herself, Jaime would be the last person to stop her. But neither would he let her go alone. 

“I sailed past it once, your sapphire isle.”  

As her eyes refocused on his face, Jaime was once again reminded of how perfectly they matched the blue waters of her home.   

“Did you?”

“Yes. It looked beautiful. Peaceful and green.” Jaime smiled at the memory of it. “I think I’d be very content there. Husband to the Evenstar has quite a nice ring to it.”

He heard her breath catch, just as he heard the quavering hope in her voice when she finally spoke. “You would give up Casterly Rock?”

Jaime was momentarily dumbstruck. How could she possibly imagine that a _castle_ would be more important to him than she was? That his duty would take him anywhere other than where duty called _her_?

“I never wanted the Rock, or to be Warden of the West. It holds less appeal now than it ever has. Tyrion is welcome to it. _Anyone_ is welcome to it.” He tugged her closer. “Because it won’t be me, Brienne. I have no intention of watching you walk or ride or row away from me ever again. I go where you go. Wherever you go.” 

“Do you mean that, Jaime?” She was smiling now, in spite of the tears once again swimming in her eyes.

“Yes, I mean it.” He raised her hand to his chest and pressed her palm against his heart. “It's yours, remember?"

Her smile brightened, even as a tear rolled down her face. “Then I’d rather we didn’t wait.”

Jaime raised his eyebrows. “Wait for what?”

“You asked me to marry you when the war was over. I don’t see why we should wait.”

He beamed at her, overcome with a joy so sudden and powerful that he felt weightless with it. And in that state, all of the suffering along his path seemed to shrink in significance. Jaime would endure it all again, if he had to. If it brought it him to this—to _her._

But even as his heart soared, Jaime felt a twitching at the edges of his conscience. There _had_ been a reason he thought it better to wait, although it seemed substantially less important than it had before she’d agreed to be his wife.

He reached up to dry her cheek. “I don’t want to leave you the Kingslayer’s widow, Brienne. It is incredibly selfish of me to tarnish you with the Lannister name as it is, even more so if I’m not here to defend you.”

Her look turned stern, and the hand that had been resting on his chest fisted in his cloak. “Don’t you dare speak that word to me again. And do you think I would give one moment’s thought to what anyone else thinks, Jaime?” Brienne’s grip slackened, but she did not release him. “I am fully aware that one or both of us may not make it through this war, or the next. But if you truly wish to marry me, then I would rather not die the Maid of Tarth.” 

A ghost of a smirk danced about her mouth, and Jaime smiled at her, wide and full of wonder. Had _he_ been the one to bring this out in her, this playful boldness? He rather hoped so. 

“You will not die at all, if I can help it,” Jaime declared, pulling her tight against him. “But I know your stubbornness far too well to think that I can change your mind. I might as well relent now and save myself the trouble.”

Her eyes narrowed, but before she could utter a single word in argument, Jaime crushed his lips to hers. 

~

When the two of them arrived at the Great Hall a not-so-short while later, it was already noisy and crowded for the evening meal. The warmth of the fire generally felt like a balm to Jaime’s aching body, but now he hardly noticed. Instead, he had to concentrate on forcing the smile from his face.

Brienne’s expression had already smoothed into something resembling her usual guardedness, although she could do nothing about her kiss-swollen lips. The thought made him grin again, and he silently cursed himself. 

They sat down across from each other at the end of a long table where Podrick and Bronn were waiting. Bronn’s eyes flickered between the two of them, but he only waggled his eyebrows in Jaime’s direction before returning his attention to his stew. Pod scurried off to fetch bowls for Jaime and Brienne. When he returned a few minutes later, Tyrion followed closely behind, unsurprisingly toting a jug of wine.

The mood quickly turned merry, with Tyrion and Bronn trying to outdo each other with the most awful jokes Jaime had ever heard. Brienne seemed uncomfortable at first, but Tyrion succeeded in thawing her disapproving exterior far more quickly than Jaime expected. Although the fact that she had just agreed to marry his brother had likely helped Tyrion’s chances. 

The last time all five of them had been in the same place, and in relative peace, had been years ago—before the world had gone mad. All of Jaime’s children had been alive. Tyrion had not yet been accused of murder, had not yet _committed_ murder. It was before Brienne had left on her honor-bound quest, a nervous and unprepared Podrick trailing behind her. Before Cersei sat the Iron Throne. Before Jaime had come face to face with Dothraki and dragons and the dead.

He could not have imagined this, any of this, then.

And yet, something between them had been made sweeter by the years of hardship and separation. In its wake had come an understanding, along with an appreciation that hadn’t existed before.

It felt to Jaime like a strange little family. Ill-assorted and unlikely, it was nevertheless something worth fighting for. Something worth saving. Something made all the more wonderful by the glorious warrior looking at him from across the table, eyes luminous in the firelight. 

This was not the time to share their news, Jaime knew, although they would need to do it soon if they wanted to wed before the fighting started. But not there. Not where Bronn and his brother would undoubtedly make a scene that Brienne would hate.

No. At that moment, the joy in his heart was mirrored in her eyes—and it was enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I guess the title was a bit of a spoiler. But I’m not really sorry. :) 
> 
> I hope you enjoyed reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it!
> 
> Only a couple of chapters left, I think. Although I won’t put an official number up until I’m absolutely sure. In the meantime, thank you all again for your continued support of this story.


	7. A Union

“You couldn't wait to start drinking until _after_ the wedding?” Jaime cast a sideways glance at Tyrion as he adjusted the straps on his golden hand. 

“But it calms my nerves,” Tyrion protested, taking another swig from his cup.

“Your nerves? I’m the one getting married.”

“Yes, but _I’m_ officiating.” Tyrion splayed his hand across his chest, eyes twinkling. “I'm told it's quite an important job. Gods know why you chose me.”

“ _I_ didn’t,” Jaime grumbled, snatching the wine jug from the table before Tyrion could refill his glass. “It’s not my fault this is the way they do things in the North.”

With no septon currently at Winterfell, he and Brienne had decided to wed in the godswood. And according to Northern custom, the head of the man’s house conducted the marriage ceremony. Tyrion, being the only other Lannister at hand, was as close to that tradition as they were going to get. 

Not that Jaime would have preferred someone else. In fact, he’d been feeling rather warmly about it until Tyrion started guzzling down wine. His brother could get as drunk as he liked at the feast, but not before then.

Neither Jaime nor Brienne had any particular affinity for the old gods—or the Seven, for that matter. Jaime didn’t much feel like petitioning _any_ of the gods for permission to make Brienne his wife. But since he wanted to marry her, and she wanted it to be now, they had been left with little choice. And given the pivotal role the Starks had played in their relationship, Jaime supposed there was something fitting about being married beneath the sacred tree of their ancestral home.

When Tyrion first described it to him, Jaime had been baffled by the informality of the godswood wedding ceremony—if it could even be called that. It seemed as if people in the North essentially decided they were married, and then they were.

He didn’t mind that idea in the least, nor had he objected to the wedding’s brevity. However, Jaime hadn't liked the sound of what little ritual the ceremony did involve. He didn’t want someone to just hand Brienne over to him—presuming she would have agreed to such a concept, which he was fairly confident she would not. Nor did he suspect she would have appreciated being asked if she would take him seemingly as an afterthought, once the men involved had already settled matters.

It would also have left Jaime with no opportunity to pledge himself to _her_ , which he found completely unacceptable.

And so Tyrion had taken it upon himself to cobble something together that, as he put it, would “please absolutely none of the gods.” Knowing his brother’s penchant for irreverence, Jaime had insisted on going over everything. Thoroughly. Twice. 

He’d been pleasantly surprised. But then, Tyrion had always been clever at that sort of thing.  

Tyrion chuckled. “Northerns _are_ quite the experts at keeping things simple. And dull. Although their expediency undoubtedly works in your favor.” 

“Indeed,” Jaime replied absentmindedly, reaching for Widow’s Wail. These days, he wouldn't go anywhere unarmed, even to his wedding.

“I could liven things up a bit,” Tyrion suggested, drumming his short fingers on the table. “Perhaps open with a song? The Bear and the Maiden Fair would be rather poetic.”

Jaime turned his head sharply to glare at his brother, feeling his jaw muscles clench. “You _do_ realize I have a sword in my hand?” 

Tyrion held his hands up in mock surrender. “I’m kidding. You know I take this very seriously. And I’m quite honored to be the one to do it, even if I’m not technically the head of our house.”

“Consider this the official passing of the title, then,” Jaime muttered, glancing down to buckle the sword belt around his waist. “It’s all yours.”

When he raised his eyes, Jaime found Tyrion’s green gaze fixed on him intently. His brother had a bemused look on his face, as if he didn't really believe that Jaime was speaking the truth.

“I meant what I said before,” Jaime insisted, picking up his cloak. “If we survive this war, Brienne and I are going to Tarth. You’re all welcome to do whatever you damn well please with the rest of the realm. Just leave us out of it.”

Tyrion’s eyebrows rose high on his forehead. “You’re really going to settle down, then? A quiet island life, with nothing but the occasional pirate to occupy your time?”

“I'll have plenty to occupy my time,” Jaime replied, thinking fondly of Brienne. “Besides, I've had enough fighting for several lifetimes.”

Tyrion huffed. “Haven’t we all? But don't worry. What _I_ intend to do with the realm is help Daenerys usher in an age of peace unlike anything Westeros has ever seen.” 

Jaime studied his brother, whose expression had suddenly gone resolute and somber. He knew Tyrion was sincerely dedicated to that goal, but Jaime had yet to be convinced it would come to pass. 

He’d seen and heard enough about Daenerys Targaryen—some from Tyrion himself—to make him wonder. Tyrion tried his best to be a moderating influence on her, and the girl did seem to have a sincerely compassionate heart. Although Jaime hadn’t yet spotted any obvious signs of the madness that had consumed her father, she possessed a certain ruthless single-mindedness that left him with a vague sense of foreboding. He very much hoped he was wrong.

“And when I do,” Tyrion continued, “I can’t think of a better pair to be Lord and Lady Paramount of the Stormlands.”

Jaime grimaced, shaking his head. So _that_ was why he’d been so desperate to see them married. “You want to move the seat of the Stormlands to Evenfall Hall? Brienne will never agree. And anyway, that’s a Baratheon title.”

Tyrion shrugged. “The Baratheons are all dead, Jaime, in case you hadn’t noticed. Daenerys can grant the title to whoever she wishes.” 

“Whoever _you_ wish, you mean,” Jaime retorted irritably. “Tyrion, I’ve told you—” 

“Yes, yes, I know. No more politics.” Tyrion exhaled a frustrated sigh, and the look he turned on Jaime was half aggravated, half beseeching. “Just think about it. And of course we’d speak to Brienne before anything was decided.”   

Jaime shook his head again, grinding his teeth. 

“Come on, brother,” Tyrion implored. “I wasn’t trying to upset you. I won’t mention it again.”

“Yes, you will.”

Tyrion gave Jaime a brief, rueful smile as he rose from his chair. “You’re probably right. But not until the war is over. You have my word.”

Jaime nodded curtly. He didn’t want to be angry today, even if his infuriating little brother deserved it.

“Now, if I’m not mistaken, we have a wedding to get to.” 

He ran his hand through his lengthening hair. Tyrion was right. It was time.

“Are you nervous?” Tyrion asked, coming to stand beside him.

“Yes.” 

“Don't be. You have nothing to worry about.” Tyrion laid a reassuring hand on Jaime’s forearm. “I have been as unshakably certain of few things in my life as I am about the two of you.”

Jaime rested his own hand on Tyrion’s shoulder and squeezed. There were so many words he wanted to say, but all he could manage was a hoarse “thank you” as they headed for the door.

The two of them crossed the castle grounds in silence. The midday sky was gray and dry, and the icy gale that was blowing when he awoke had slackened to a whispering breeze. Jaime decided it was a hopeful sign.

When they entered the godswood, they found a meager assembly already gathered around the heart tree. Jaime would have preferred even fewer guests, but, as Tyrion had pointed out, they could hardly deny the Starks the right to attend if they wished.

And they did, apparently, because all of them were there. 

Jaime’s eyes fell first on Bran, and it was nauseating to see him in his wheeled chair. Of all the wrongs he’d done, Jaime regretted that one most. He’d apologized to the boy when he first arrived at Winterfell, and Bran had pardoned him without a second thought, saying something cryptic and emotionless about it being his destiny. So, although he was technically forgiven, Jaime didn’t feel it. He doubted he ever would.

Next to Bran stood Sansa, rigid and solemn-faced, and Arya, who still looked at Jaime as if she’d like to gut him. She respected Brienne, he knew, which may have been the only reason she hadn’t slaughtered him in his sleep.

At her side was the blacksmith, Robert’s by-blow, Gendry. The boy looked so very like his father that Jaime was momentarily reminded of Cersei, and the thought of her brought him an unexpected stab of grief. Not for _her_ , but for what he had allowed himself to be when he was with her. For the years of his life wasted on a love that wasn’t really love at all.

Jaime cursed inwardly. Nothing like being reminded of his most grievous mistakes on his wedding day. His only consolation was that Brienne knew about them all, and they hadn’t stopped her.

On Gendry’s other side, Jaime found a few less familiar faces, as well as more welcome ones. Jorah Mormont and Davos Seaworth stood with Bronn, Podrick, and Sandor Clegane, who looked as gruff and surly as ever.

Although their presence made him glad, Jaime nevertheless felt his heart start to race as he walked to the foot of the weirwood tree. Great white branches sprawled outward from its center, stretching away from the carved face and its crimson tears like twisted arms reaching for the gray sky. Somehow, even in winter, it retained some of its red leaves. The rest were scattered on the ground beneath his boots.

Tyrion hopped agilely up on the platform that awaited him near the base of the tree. He still stood much shorter than the bride and groom, but he would at least be high enough to comfortably reach their hands for the binding. Jaime met his eyes, and Tyrion offered him a small, encouraging smile.

Sighing, Jaime turned to face the crowd, scanning the path for any sign of Brienne. Instead, he saw several others making their way toward them, and he shifted uncomfortably when he realized who it was. Jon Snow and Daenerys Targaryen walked arm in arm, with her Unsullied commander, curly haired handmaiden, and Varys trailing behind them. 

It felt a little like the Dragonpit, all over again, until Tyrion’s queen looked at him with unexpected kindness in her wide blue-green eyes. She, it seemed, had genuinely forgiven him, and Jaime felt some of the tension leave his shoulders.

Jon nodded at him, and Jaime returned the gesture. The two of them would never be friends, but they were learning to work together for the sake of the greater good. Jon reminded Jaime _so_ much of Ned—serious and upright to a fault, with a strict adherence to honor that rivaled Brienne’s—but he had a different perspective on the Stark patriarch than he once had. He wasn’t sure when his dislike of Ned had vanished, but it had—completely. Left behind was a throbbing remorse for all that had happened, and a useless wish that he had told Ned the truth the day he killed the Mad King. How might so many things have been different if he had? 

He wondered what Ned and Catelyn would say, if they could see him now. Jaime Lannister getting married in their sacred grove to the most honorable woman in Westeros. Perhaps they could, he supposed, casting his eyes up at the sky. 

When he glanced back down, Jaime finally spotted her towering form, moving through the trees.

Just for a moment, the world and its darkness faded away, and the forest went silent and still. He could no longer think of yesterday or tomorrow. For Jaime, there was only Brienne, her boots crunching in the snow as she walked toward him. She strode forward alone, Oathkeeper as ever at her hip, having declined to be escorted or presented. She was and would always remain her own woman—and Jaime didn’t want her any other way. 

When she finally stopped in front of him, Jaime sucked in a shaky breath. The blue tunic she wore under her cloak made her eyes even more staggeringly beautiful than usual, and her lips were curved in an almost imperceptible smile. 

It wasn’t until Brienne reached up to unfasten her own cloak that Jaime remembered what he was supposed to be doing, and he reached out with his good hand to lift it from her shoulders. Without needing to be told, Podrick scurried forward to take it from him. 

Jaime had no maiden cloak to give her—there had not been time, and it hadn’t seemed important—so he swept the cloak from his own shoulders and wrapped it around Brienne’s.

He should have been cold, but he wasn’t. The warmth in her glowing blue eyes was more than enough. 

Tyrion cleared his throat dramatically, and Jaime and Brienne turned in unison to face him. Jaime narrowed his eyes in a silent warning, and Tyrion winked in reply.

“It is my sincere pleasure to gather us here in the sight of gods and men to witness, at long last, this union of man and wife,” Tyrion declared, gesturing toward them. 

In response, Jaime reached for Brienne’s hand, lifting it forward and aloft, toward Tyrion. Much to his surprise, he found that _he_  was trembling. Her hand was steady and warm beneath his own. 

Tyrion drew a long white ribbon from his pocket and proceeded to wind it around their joined hands.

“Let it be known that Jaime of House Lannister and Brienne of House Tarth are one heart, one flesh, one soul. May none who value their lives be so foolish as to seek to tear them asunder." Tyrion knotted the ribbon in a sloppy bow atop their hands, and looked up, meeting Jaime’s gaze. His brother’s face was serious, but a smile danced at the corners of his eyes. “In the sight of the old gods and the new, I hereby declare these two souls sealed, bound as one for eternity."

Tyrion nodded at them, and Jaime turned to face Brienne. She stretched out her other hand, fingers passing over his golden hand to grip his forearm instead. He was glad of that—he wanted to feel her.

Finally, in unison with Brienne, Jaime spoke the vow his heart had known was true for years. "I am hers and she is mine. From this day, until the end of my days.”

Jaime paused, swallowing past the tightness in his throat, before adding his final words. “With this kiss, I pledge my love.” 

He leaned in, intending to place a soft, chaste kiss on her lips. He’d expected her to be shy in front of their audience—but she was not. She followed his mouth when he moved to pull away, and, with that, he was lost. Jaime’s awareness shrunk to the warm welcome of her mouth, wishing his hand was free to pull her closer, until he heard Tyrion clear his throat once more. Brienne abruptly pulled back, cheeks pink. When Jaime looked at Tyrion, he found him smiling widely, and Jaime grinned in return.

They were _married_.

Celebration threatened to burst out of his chest, and Jaime struggled to hold it at bay as he led Brienne around Tyrion’s platform to kneel before the heart tree. Clutching her hand, still bound to his own, Jaime closed his eyes and said a silent prayer of gratitude. For her. For the chance to make a life with her. A chance he did not intend to squander.

Rising together, they faced their audience, who erupted in applause. Bronn whistled loudly, and even Sansa was smiling. But how could she not be, Jaime wondered, when Brienne looked so quietly, radiantly happy?

As their guests moved to disperse, Brienne waved Podrick over to them, slipping her hand from the ribbon. Disappointed, Jaime worried she intended to remove his cloak and replace it with her own. Instead, she took hers from Pod and wrapped it snugly around Jaime’s shoulders.

“No sense for you to freeze,” she muttered, by way of explanation.

Jaime could only beam at her in silent appreciation. It was such a very _Brienne_ thing to do, so unassumingly, pragmatically thoughtful—and almost laughably appropriate. She had, after all, already offered him her protection in more ways than she would ever know. 

He reclaimed her hand and held it tightly all the way to the Great Hall, where everyone had gathered for a small feast in their honor. They hadn’t wanted one—everything was in short supply, and they needed to conserve it all—but Tyrion had insisted. Men from each army had also been invited, and, knowing his brother, Jaime suspected the celebration was serving more than one purpose.

But he didn’t really mind. In fact, Jaime would much rather have skipped the feast altogether and had Brienne to himself immediately. He had a hunch that she might feel the same, but Brienne would never have done anything to disrespect their hosts. 

Jaime steeled himself, prepared for unpleasantness at worst and boredom at best. But he was surprised to find that the mood in the hall was contented, relaxed, and filled with seemingly heartfelt congratulations. Jon Snow himself, to Jaime’s astonishment, raised his glass to toast them, saying that mending the rifts of the past and building a future worth having was more important than ever.

Even Cleganehad wished them well, although Brienne seemed to find his suggestion that Jaime had finally found someone who could keep him in his place much more amusing than he had. He still found it almost comically unlikely that the two of them had become _friends_ after trying to kill each other.

Then again, Jaime wasn’t exactly one to comment on that particular point.

There weren't any ribald songs or attempts at a bedding—although anyone who’d tried would have found himself at the pointy end of two very sharp Valyrian swords. Instead, there was good food and bad wine and Brienne, smiling at his side.

When they finally retired to her chamber, Jaime watched the sparkle of joy fade from her eyes, replaced by a cautious uncertainty. For all of her growing boldness, Brienne was still a maid.

Wordlessly, he reached for her, and she leaned into his touch.

“Jaime, I don’t...I’m not...” Brienne began, her hesitant voice tinged with regret. 

He shushed her with a shake of his head. “Brienne, all I see is the beautiful woman I love. And there is nothing in this world I want more right now than you.”

By the time her warm skin was pressed to his, all of her shyness and doubt had fallen away. She trailed her long fingers over his face, through his beard, across his shoulders, along the scars at the end of his stump, until Jaime was practically shaking with desire.

He returned her caresses, savoring the feel of her, the lidded look in those astonishing eyes, the sound of his name on her lips. His hand roved reverently over every inch of her—the sweep of her cheek, the strong, endless stretch of her limbs, the surprising softness of her modest curves. He pressed kisses to every surface he passed over, lingering on the pale, thin scars that slashed across the base of her neck, left by the bear in what felt to Jaime like another life. There were others, too, newer and unfamiliar to him, that hadn't marred her form when he’d seen it all those years ago.

She was infinitely more beautiful than he remembered. And now she was _his wife_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Continued thanks to everyone for reading—and for your comments and kudos! I hope you're still enjoying the story.
> 
> Two chapters to go! :)


	8. A Battle

Two days after the wedding, the forces of the living marched north to face the dead.

It was a slow, punishing trek, and they were battered incessantly by the bitter white winds and blinding snow, which had returned with a vengeance. No matter how many layers of padding and fur Jaime donned, the cold seeped through them and gnawed at his bones. With each passing day, the drifts grew deeper and the daylight dwindled. Crusty ice formed on every surface—his horse, his cloak, his beard—and Jaime began to forget what it was like to be warm.

The farther north they pushed, the more it seemed as if winter was trying to swallow them up.

Riding at the head of the Lannister forces, at least, felt familiar—as did Bronn’s virtually constant complaining. And then there was Brienne, always at his side.

Her skin had grown impossibly paler in the cold, as if no blood could be spared to color her cheeks, and her eyes were often narrowed into nothing but blue slits against the stinging snow. But she was _there_ , and the mere awareness of her—of their togetherness—brought Jaime a sense of surety he shouldn’t have been capable of feeling in the midst of such a disorienting wasteland. Looking forward to nights shared in their tent was often the only thing that kept him going.

It had been incredibly hard for Brienne to leave Sansa, Jaime knew, even though the lady had all but ordered her to go. As they rode away from Winterfell, she had grimly confided to him that it felt like breaking her vow to both the girl and her mother, even though she knew it was not. Jaime had done his best to assure her that helping to win this war was the most important thing she could do for Sansa—and for everyone.

All three Starks had remained at the castle, guarded by a garrison of men from the North and the Vale. Arya had seemed especially resentful at being left behind. According to Brienne, she had only agreed to stay at Jon’s insistence, after he’d told her that she was the only one he trusted to keep their siblings safe. She had clung fiercely to him when they said goodbye.

Jaime had been prepared for an equally difficult parting from his own brother, but Tyrion had insisted on accompanying them, in spite of his queen’s objections. Clegane, on the other hand, had elected to stay with the Stark girls. He had a strange and intense attachment to them that Jaime found frankly mystifying, but his dedication to their safety had given Brienne at least a sliver of solace.

In spite of her inward conflict, Brienne had soldiered on with the rest of them, never once complaining. And when they’d finally reached their goal, a defensible stretch of land far enough north of Winterfell, she’d toiled right there beside his men as they made camp and dug in to wait.

A few days passed, and the men grew progressively more restless. Morale began to plummet. In addition to the brutality of their surroundings, the anxious anticipation was agony. Everyone was tense and agitated, waiting vigilantly for the approaching threat.

Then, one morning, came a heavy mist—glacial and sinister. It crested the distant hills and moved purposefully toward them over the field as if it were alive.

And as it spread, the dead swarmed the landscape like a decrepit, gruesome flood.

The horde numbered in the tens of thousands, but it was only about a third of what they’d estimated for the entire army. Jaime did not have time to wonder where the rest of them were; he could only thank the gods they didn’t have to face them all at once. The resurrected dragon was nowhere to be seen, but there were dead wildlings, giants, and a host of other creatures from beyond the Wall recognizable among their ranks.

And scattered among them, mounted on half-rotted steeds, were the White Walkers.

Many had long, ragged white hair and beards, and their skin had a puckered, leathery appearance, molded over gaunt features. And their eyes—that eerie, vibrant blue, glowing with otherworldly menace. They were the most terrifying things Jaime had ever seen.

The battle that unfolded around him was absolute chaos. Everywhere Jaime looked, the living attempted to stem the onslaught with dragonglass and flaming arrows. He heard the rush of dragon wings overhead, and then the world exploded in fire.

The dragons’ fiery breath burned everything it touched—igniting the dead, charring the bodies of their own fallen soldiers, and melting the snow into great slippery gullies of water. Daenerys kept them circling, and the wind grew warm from the unceasing, smoldering fire. But the wights just kept coming, mindless and horrifying, as the screams of men and dragons filled the air.

And yet, it wasn’t until he saw Brienne’s horse cut out from under her that Jaime felt a true, all-consuming fear.

She was leading a group of Lannister soldiers in a charge toward one of the Walkers, which had somehow remained untouched by the barrage of dragonfire. When he saw her mount fall, Jaime dug his heels into his own horse, tearing across the battlefield in her direction.

As he rode, he watched Brienne regain her feet and continue forward, slashing her way closer to where the Walker was cutting down all the men it could reach with its clear, icy blade. Jaime was desperate to get to her, to help her, as the vision from his dream flashed before his eyes.

He was nearly there when Jaime’s own horse went down in a sudden lurch, sending him sprawling. He scrambled to his feet, using Widow’s Wail to hack his way toward her through the writhing, murderous masses.

Brienne raised Oathkeeper and struck at the Walker with all her strength. It parried and attacked her with vigor, but it could not break her defenses. She stood fast, her movements steady, beating her foe back with a series of powerful blows.

Jaime broke into a run. When he finally reached her, legs burning, he launched his body into a group of wights that were charging at her from the rear. As he fell, he saw Brienne surge forward with a mighty, sweeping swing. The blade connected, and the Walker shattered.

The dead instantly collapsed around him, leaving Jaime gasping on the ground amidst their crumbling bones.

Brienne spun toward him, eyes flashing with anger.

“What the fuck are you doing?” she barked.

“Saving you,” he shouted back. His fear, temporarily alleviated by seeing her unharmed, was quickly morphing into irritation at her recklessness.

She closed the distance between them in a few long strides, then bent down and yanked him roughly to his feet. Brienne leaned toward him, glowering, until they were nearly nose to nose.

“I don't need you putting yourself in harm's way for me,” she growled, blue eyes boring into his.

“I cannot watch you die, Brienne,” he rasped. How could she not know that?

She exhaled a short, uneven sigh. Then her eyes softened, and her lips were on his. It was a hard, desperate kiss, their teeth clashing and his tongue plunging into her mouth. Brienne clutched at his shoulders and Jaime pulled her hard against him, armor be damned. He couldn't get close enough.

All their terror and relief and love—so much love—was there, in the meeting of their lips and tongues and breath.

“Oy! Lovebirds!” Bronn bellowed impatiently, and they tore their mouths apart. “We’ve got an army to lead, remember?”

Jaime pressed a final, branding kiss to her lips before retrieving his sword from the ground. Then, without another word, he charged alongside her, back into the fray.

~

The dragons won it for them, in the end, although the men, too, had fought bravely. They’d lost many, but Jaime knew it could have been worse. Much worse.

In fact, he didn’t know how they would make it when they faced the rest, especially with the addition of both the dead dragon and the Night King, who’d been conspicuously and worryingly absent from this fight. But that was a problem for another day.

Bruised and exhausted, Jaime and Brienne made their way back to the camp, which had miraculously survived unharmed. The dragons had lain down a fire line to prevent the wights from swamping it, and it had worked.

Bronn and Pod were waiting for them. One of Bronn’s fingers was bent at an odd, unpleasant angle, and Podrick was nursing a bleeding leg. But they had survived.

When Jaime spotted Tyrion, he sunk to his knees and crushed his little brother to his chest.

“I thought I was going to lose you for a moment there, you heroic fool,” Tyrion chided, flashing Jaime a half-hearted grin as he extricated himself from his brother’s embrace.

“Better luck next time,” Jaime replied, smiling faintly.

“What of Jon Snow and Queen Daenerys?” Brienne asked, stepping forward to help Jaime to his feet.

“Safe,” Tyrion confirmed. “Though there were a few close calls. They’ve retired to their tents, and I suggest you do the same. You’ve all earned a bit of a rest.”

Jaime nodded wearily, then gestured toward Bronn and Pod. “Have Tarly patch them up first, will you?”

Tyrion inclined his head. “I’ve already sent for him, as a matter of fact. Now go, both of you. I’ll send someone to fetch you later. For now, my friends and I are going to check for survivors.”

Jaime watched Tyrion set off down the hill, followed by Greyworm and a group of Unsullied. They would likely find some still among the living, but Jaime didn’t know how many of them they’d be able to save.

“Be careful!” Jaime called after him.

Tyrion waved a hand dismissively over his shoulder. “Always! And anyway, you’ve already done the hard part.”

Jaime shook his head, allowing his eyes to wander over the smoking, corpse-strewn field. Somehow, this victory didn’t really feel like one. His blood was still singing from the adrenaline of the fight, but he couldn’t find a trace of triumph inside of him. So he just stood there, surveying the carnage, until he felt Brienne slip her hand into his own. She led him gently toward the camp, and he followed her up the path and into their tent.

The flap had barely swung shut behind them before Jaime was tearing at her armor and his own, his lips seeking hers in frantic, unbridled desire. He didn’t stop until she was molded against him, skin to skin. They were both covered in sweat and soot and blood, but Jaime didn’t care. He needed her—to be close to her, to be inside her. To feel her moving with him, warm and alive and _here_.

When they were both limp and sated, Jaime rolled onto his back and pulled her close again. Brienne tucked her head under his chin and draped one long, pale leg across his own. His stump swirled lazy circles on her lower back, and his breath ruffled her flaxen hair. His eyes drifted shut, and he marveled at how he had gone from abject hell to sheer heaven in such a short amount of time.

“I'm sorry I shouted at you,” Brienne murmured, her voice pulling him back from the edge of sleep. “But I can’t lose you either, Jaime. If you died for me, I'd…”

She trailed off into silence, and soon Jaime felt hot tears falling on his chest.

He brushed his lips across her damp forehead. “I'd vow not to, Brienne, but I couldn't promise to keep it. And I don't intend to undo all the progress you've made with me.”

She sniffled, and he thought his heart might break.

“I know it's war, and there are no guarantees,” she said softly, wiping a pool of water from his skin. “I’ve been fighting for years, and I never much cared whether I lived or not. I was always prepared to die in battle, fighting for a worthy cause. But now...”

Jaime hummed, raising his good hand to cover hers where it rested on his stomach. “Bronn once asked me how I wanted to die.”

Brienne huffed. “That sounds quite like Bronn. What did you say? Valiantly in battle? Defending those who matter most to you?”

“No, nothing so noble as that. I told him I'd like it to be in the arms of the woman I love.”

Brienne stiffened, and he smiled against her hair.

“It's still true,” he continued, stroking his fingers over the back of her hand. “Although I'd prefer it if you and I were a bit older when the time came.”

Slowly, Brienne lifted her head. With her chin resting on his chest, she gazed up at him thoughtfully.

Jaime would never understand how eyes so blue could be so warm.

“You don’t imagine a family around you?”

Her words shocked him so completely that he had difficulty digesting them—let alone forming a response.

“Brienne, are you saying…?” Jaime couldn’t finish, drowning in a sudden wave of panic. That was not a burden he wanted for her in a time of war. 

“I don't know. I don’t think so.” 

He closed his eyes, blowing out a long breath. Of course, he should have known it hadn’t been long enough for her to be sure she was with child—even if she was. 

“Is the thought of more children painful for you?” 

Jaime considered her question. In truth, he tried not to think about his children. Of all the awful memories he carried with him, that of Myrcella dying in his arms—so soon after he had finally found her, after she had claimed him as her father—was one of the most unspeakably painful. And it still grieved him acutely that he hadn’t been there for Tommen at the end. The boy had been too kind and gentle for their world—for his mother and her game of thrones. Even Joffrey, monstrous as he was, had grown up soaked in Cersei’s poison. How different might he have been had his cruelty been checked instead of encouraged?

They had deserved better, all three of them. They had deserved a _life_. And the anguish he felt over their loss, over not being able to save them, had not fully healed. Jaime knew it might never wholly leave him. 

But that did not mean he couldn’t picture more children in his future. Actually, it was quite easy to imagine, and he was stunned by the intense yearning that darted through his body as he did. 

Brienne’s hand shifted beneath his, and Jaime opened his eyes, focusing instantly on her face. Her expression was filled with such boundless compassion for him that he wondered, not for the first time, how he had possibly ended up with this incredible woman as his wife.

“Do _you_ want a child?” he inquired, his voice so low it was nearly a whisper. 

“I don't know,” she hesitated. “I never thought I'd be a mother. I never knew my own, and I'm not sure I’d be a very good one.”

He squeezed her hand. “You would be.”

“Honestly, the thought of children used to frighten me.” A small smile curved her lips. “But with you…someday, perhaps. An heir to Tarth. My father would be pleased.”

Jaime sighed. He was still unconvinced that Selwyn Tarth would welcome the idea of the Kingslayer as his daughter’s husband, let alone as his grandchildren’s father. They’d sent a raven before the wedding, telling him of their impending marriage, but there hadn’t been time to wait for a reply.

Regardless, Jaime was finished building his life around what other people wanted.

“But would it please _you_?” He couldn’t believe how badly he wanted her to say yes.

She blinked at him, sapphire eyes sparkling and unusually serene.

“Yes, Jaime. I think it would.”

A bliss burst upon him then, so bright and sweet and unexpected that Jaime wanted to laugh. He had never thought having a family would be possible for him; he hadn’t even allowed himself to hope for it.

But now, there it was, so vivid and close he could almost touch it. And he wanted it with every fiber of his being.

He wanted to be a father to as many golden-haired, sapphire-eyed children as Brienne would give him. Children with her goodness and her strength, and maybe just a bit of his own loyal heart. Children that would be fierce and beautiful and _theirs._

And it wasn’t just the children. With a seemingly limitless passion, he wanted Brienne—every day of his life.

He longed to see her hair reflecting the light of a sunny island day, to watch her swimming in Tarth’s waters, blue eyes melting into the sea. He wanted to hear her laugh again, to see how often he could make her smile. To spend a long summer with her, making a life, a home, a family.

And the family they would make would be a happy one, with honor, love, and care at its core instead of selfishness, greed, and lust for power. They would be Lannisters unlike Westeros had ever seen before. Lannisters of Tarth.

The thought of _that_ made him grin, and Jaime delighted in Brienne’s answering smile. As he leaned down to kiss her once more, he felt nothing short of joyful awe. 

He knew they had more battles to face; it was a long and perilous road that lay ahead of them. And Jaime was far from certain he would live to see the spring, if it ever came. But he hoped he would. He had something important to live for.

A future, once more shining with promise and possibility. He could see it there, in her eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was originally how I'd planned to end this fic, but I decided a week or so ago that I wanted a little epilogue, too. It's mostly written, so it should be posted soon. 
> 
> As always, I very much enjoy and appreciate reading your feedback. Thank you! <3


	9. Epilogue: A Future

Jaime woke to the warmth of sunlight on his face, and he squinted against the brightness of the morning. As he stretched, loosening the stiffness that had settled in his muscles, he turned his head to gaze upon his slumbering wife.

All he could see was the back of her pale blond head, her short hair rumpled and curling slightly at the nape of her neck, and one bare shoulder peeking out from beneath the covers. It had been well over three years since he'd first woken up beside her at Winterfell, the day after they'd wed, and it still made Jaime smile.

He watched her for several long moments, taking in the peaceful rise and fall of her breath. When he noticed a subtle change in its rhythm, he quietly rolled toward her, curling his body around hers and pressing his face into that glorious neck. Brienne sighed contentedly, settling back against him.

Jaime slipped his arm around her, resting his hand on the gentle swell of her pregnant belly. Her hand closed over his, and the gesture immediately brought him back to the last days of the war.

He had been wounded so grievously in the final battle that it had nearly cost Jaime his life. They had been protecting the scorpion, which had been built to take on the dead dragon using Jaime and Bronn's specifications. Gendry had forged them some impressive dragonglass-tipped bolts, but the enemy army had targeted the weapon as soon as they'd uncovered it. Several soldiers had fallen, until Bronn was once again forced to clamber onto the device, shouting curses about the fucking Lannisters getting him killed.

Jaime had intercepted a White Walker about to hurl its ice spear in Bronn’s direction. He'd fought—and lost. The spear caught him in the side only seconds before Bronn fired a shot that struck the creature. It had let out a piercing, hellish cry, and the entire battlefield seemed to still and watch it fall. Jaime had used the momentary distraction to swing Widow's Wail at the Walker with his last remaining strength. The blade had splintered it into a thousand frozen shards of death, and Jaime had collapsed.

The last thing he remembered before the world had gone dark was blood, Lannister red, hot and sticky on his hands and in the snow. And Brienne's wide blue eyes, filled with terror and desperation, hovering above him. He had felt a raw despair at parting from her, but also a quiet tranquility at knowing that her face was the last thing he would see in this life.

When he had awoken in their tent, half-delirious with pain and fever, he had been bandaged from hip to breastbone. Brienne was huddled at his side. She had looked more broken than Jaime had ever seen her, crumpled and defeated, as if she might shrink in and collapse on herself.

He’d moaned her name and she jerked up, looking at him with red-rimmed, swollen eyes.

“I think I might be dying,” he’d said, oddly unperturbed by the thought.

Her brow had furrowed, chin quivering, as she placed her cool hand lightly against his heated cheek.

“You can't die,” she'd insisted, and the words had rustled something deep inside Jaime's pain-fogged mind. “You need to live.”

And then, all at once, he had remembered. The stench of his rotting hand, the utter brokenness of his spirit, his grim resignation—and her voice, bidding him not to die.

“You're not going to call me a coward again, are you?” He’d managed a weak smile.

“Jaime,” she’d whispered, her voice carrying the faintest hint of reprove. “I never thought you were a coward. For a very long time, I've considered you the bravest man I have ever known.”

It had taken all his strength to reach for her, to lift his shaking hand toward her face. But she had redirected him, pressing his palm firmly against her stomach instead. Her wide, pleading eyes had been full of both hope and fear.

“I need you to live, Jaime. I cannot do this without you.”

He had cried, then, freely and unashamed, caught somewhere between exhilaration and misery. Jaime had never been so glad about anything in his life, except perhaps Brienne agreeing to be his wife. But the thought of having it all snatched away when he was so very close... It had seemed senselessly, intolerably cruel, and Jaime wanted to scream at the injustice of it.

Brienne, as she so often did, had seemed to understand everything without Jaime needing to say a word. She had just crawled up beside him, carefully gathering him against her strong body.

“You had better not get any ideas,” she’d ordered sternly. “I forbid you to die in my arms.”

He’d let out a rough, breathy laugh, making the pain excruciatingly worse. But somehow he had known, then, looking up into her tear-filled eyes, that he would live. For her. For their child. And for himself.

The sound of footsteps pounding down the passage brought Jaime back to the sun-soaked bed, to the feeling of another new life growing beneath his hand.

Brienne groaned in sleepy protest, and Jaime smiled.

“The boys are awake,” he murmured, planting a kiss at the base of her neck and relishing the pleasant little shiver it sent through her.

Their first child had turned out to be not one but two—twin boys, though not identical. One with Jaime’s eyes and one with Brienne’s, both with the golden Lannister mane. At the rate they were growing, they would be taller than both of their parents.

“Can we pretend we haven't heard them?” Brienne asked softly.

Jaime chuckled. “As my lady wife commands.”

She huffed. “I intend to remind you of that later.”

“Oh, I very much hope you do,” he teased, nipping at her ear.

“Jaime!” Brienne scolded, scowling at him over her shoulder. Gods, he still loved it when she did that. “I wanted a few more minutes of _rest_. This one kept me up half the night, and I'm not sure I can handle their...enthusiasm just now.”

At two-and-a-half years old, the boys were full of seemingly constant curiosity and exuberance. Selwyn was a bold little fellow, outgoing and fearless, with his mother's eyes and her scowl. But he had his father's humor and easy charm, which had Brienne bracing herself for trouble. Podrick was more thoughtful and shy, especially around strangers, and incredibly clever. He had Jaime's smile as well as his eyes, and his mother's strict sense of fairness.

They were both already fascinated with swords, which came as absolutely no surprise to Jaime. They had a particular affinity for Oathkeeper and Widow’s Wail, though they were not yet old enough to understand what the swords were—or what they represented. Both Selwyn and Pod liked their mother's sword best, which Jaime thought was a rather good sign.

He and Brienne had tried to return both blades to the Starks, when it was all over, but Sansa had refused to take them. The swords that helped to bring the dawn belong with the warriors who wielded them, she’d said.

They were due for a visit to Winterfell, Jaime mused, once this child was born. He'd never seen the North in spring, and he found himself looking forward to a walk through the godswood when it was green. He might even say another prayer at the foot of the heart tree, even though he still wasn't convinced that any gods were actually listening. And perhaps they could sneak in a visit to Tyrion on their way back to Tarth. The boys adored their uncle, and Jaime missed his brother.

The baby fluttered against his hand, stilled, then moved again. “She _is_ energetic this morning, isn't she?”

“She?” He could hear the smile in Brienne’s voice.

Jaime nodded into her neck. “I'm sure of it.”

He didn't know why, but he was certain it was a girl. And he hoped she would turn out just like her mother.

Brienne rolled to face him, her blue eyes languid and content. “What if it's another boy?”

He grinned. “Then we'll just have to keep trying until we get a little girl." Jaime brushed his nose playfully against hers. “I'm a very determined man when I want to be.”

As far as he was concerned, they could have a whole pride of starry-eyed cubs. In fact, he thought it sounded like a rather marvelous idea.

Brienne laughed, low and husky with sleep. It was still the sweetest sound Jaime had ever heard. Unable to help himself, he leaned closer to press a kiss to her warm, soft mouth. He had not tired of that, either, of the way she tasted of home.

In truth, Tarth had _felt_ like home to Jaime almost from the start. He had quickly become enamored with its lush, green beauty and its stunning sapphire waters, and he found himself caring deeply for the welfare of the little island. Even Brienne's father had embraced him, much to Jaime’s surprise, although they hadn’t gotten much time with him, in the end. Selwyn’s health had been failing by the time they arrived, each with an infant in their arms. But the old man had rallied, buoyed by his infatuation with his grandchildren. He seemed to relish having his daughter home again.

Brienne had been nearly inconsolable with grief when he died not long after the boys’ first nameday. But Jaime knew that Selwyn had gone peacefully, confident that Tarth would be safe in his daughter’s hands. And it was.

Being the Evenstar suited her, as Jaime had known it would. Brienne had a quiet confidence about her now, and the island was thriving under her leadership and care. And being at her side suited _him_ in ways he hadn't expected.

Brienne not only welcomed his input and assistance, but encouraged it. She sought his opinion and valued his advice; she trusted him, and that had helped Jaime begin to trust himself. In a sense, it had given him a renewed purpose, a way to finally do some real good in the world.

Nevertheless, both of them had forcefully resisted Tyrion’s neverending political overtures. Westeros was a different place than it had been before, but it was still struggling to rebuild itself after years of war, violence, and hardship. Neither Jaime nor Brienne were ready, at least not yet, to re-enter an arena that had inflicted so much distress and destruction on their lives—no matter how profusely Tyrion swore things had changed.

For now, they were devoted to Tarth, to their children, and to each other. And for Jaime, it was more than enough.

Even being lauded as a hero, unbelievable though it still was, mattered strangely little. _Brienne_ had given him the titles he treasured most: husband, father, man of honor.

And as Jaime pulled her against his chest for another morning kiss, he marveled at how fiercely he still wanted her, loved her. At how grateful he was for this remarkable woman who had known him through his worst days and led him to his best. Every day, among so many other gifts, Brienne reminded Jaime that the man he had once so badly wanted to be—the man who had existed only in _her_ eyes—was somehow the man he had become.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't thank you all enough for your support of this story, with special heaps of gratitude to those who've taken time to leave comments and kudos along the way. I never realized as a fanfic reader just how nice it is to receive feedback as a writer. And if you have thoughts on the story you haven't shared yet, I'd still love to hear them! 
> 
> I almost can't believe how much I've enjoyed writing this—and how sincerely sad I am to see the story end. To fill the void, I'm toying with the idea of writing something from Brienne's POV, perhaps overlapping or tying in with this story in some way. It's still very much in the idea/formation stage, but I'm curious to know if it's something people would be interested in.
> 
> Thanks again, one last time, for reading! :)


End file.
